A Woman Worthy of Being Pleased
by JJJJ12
Summary: As she helps Sherlock cope with Mary's sacrifice, Molly realizes the detective's similarities to her favorite literary heartthrob. Deciding she's no heroine, Molly vows to finally get over Sherlock for good. Thankfully Fitzwilliam was nothing if not persistent.
1. The Last Man in the World

Hello again! I've had this idea for awhile so I decided to write it! I have no idea how long it'll be but potentially 10 chapters? Of course there will eventually be some naughty bits but finally getting into some feels. Please enjoy!

*I realize my timeline could potentially be off, such as Rosie's age vs. when Mary died. Also, the events of TFP have not (and likely will not) occur. Please enjoy!

Xxxx

" _Till this moment I never knew myself." – Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice_

Xxx

Molly sat on a midday train, heading back to London after a long weekend in Edinburgh. Her baby hairs stuck to the cool glass of the window, obstructing her view of the glorious green landscape surrounding the tracks.

She had always wanted to make this trip. She had even mentioned her desire to take a train to Scotland when she had been engaged to Tom—he figured a bottle of Scotch and a trip to Hyde Park would satisfy her craving for the Scottish countryside.

At the thought of her failed relationship, Molly sighed and shifted in the tight seat. She was lucky enough to have the seat next to her unoccupied, but the empty presence did little more than to remind her of how pathetic and lonely her life was.

Her engagement was over. She was going on her mid-thirties, still single and childless. She was starting to question her life choices. Was choosing school and a career over a family the right choice? Had she stuck to just one degree, would she be happily married with three babies by now?

 _No_ , she cautioned herself, _I can't think like that_.

But she did. And she would continue to question her life choices, especially as her mind drifted back to where it always did. Back to London. Back to work. Back to Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective extraordinaire. The blasted devil made her life so bloody complicated. But, he added excitement and a joy she lacked before he came into her existence.

Of all her faults, she couldn't punish herself for falling in love with the man, no matter how desperately she wanted to. Falling in love with him once was bad enough. Falling in love with him twice was the nail in the coffin.

The day he told her that he needed her… the day that he left… her entire world changed. Her colorful existence went black, along with the lives of everyone he cared so deeply about. But his departure also represented a new beginning for her.

A life for Molly Hooper without Sherlock Holmes. A life where she could breathe at work, read the newspaper without being taunted by his existence, turn the telly on without hearing his name. And when the initial reaction of his death had cleared up, Molly had gotten just that.

Part of her began to believe that he was dead. The silence, the tears from those around her, the fake service that was held… It all felt so real. Because even if she knew he wasn't dead, not really anyways, his absence felt like death. Like closure.

So, she did what she had to do. She moved on. She even fell in love. Or thought she did.

Silly Molly Hooper, always believing that love existed and that there was someone out there for everyone.

She really had believed that Tom was the one. He was handsome and charming and accepted her faults like no one ever had. She was certain that a great future was in store for them.

Imagine her surprise when Sherlock returned, from his figurative grave, and one look at the consulting detective put her heart in her throat. Those piercing blue eyes, those loose curls, that voice…

She lasted about four months, desperately convincing herself that she could still be attracted to Sherlock but not in love with him. That she loved Tom, and considered Sherlock to be a dear friend. That her days fawning over Sherlock were locked away, like a faraway dream.

It wasn't really a surprise when she realized she was lying to herself. The moment wasn't straight from a romantic film, or unique in any means. It was quite a normal day, a normal occurrence, a normal hour in the boring life of Molly Hooper.

It had been a quiet Saturday afternoon. Molly was sitting on her couch, Toby in her lap, watching _Downton Abbey_ on the telly. Towards the end of the episode, she heard her door opening and footsteps along her entry way. Her stomach did a flip as she looked to hallway to see… Tom.

Her heart sunk.

It was then that she realized wishing her fiancé coming by with lunch was another man was probably an indicator that things weren't going as they should be.

And now here she was, three months later, as single as she had been the almost three years ago that Sherlock had left.

But she was proud of herself. Here she was, sitting on a chilly train, drinking room temperature tea, returning from a holiday she had always wanted to take. Sure, she had more outlandish dreams, wishing to drive across the States, or backpack through the jungles of Vietnam, or lay in the sun off the coast of Sydney. But her short, sweet trip to Scotland forced her to reevaluate her life.

It was time for her to change. To take control. To do things she had always wanted to do. She was strong. She was smart. She was beautiful. No one would stand in the way of Molly Hooper.

Except the telltale feeling of a stopping train, and an overhead announcement indicating a forced stop because of an escaped flock of sheep on the tracks. Molly groaned.

Xxx

Molly opened her eyes as she felt the train jolt forward. A quick glance at her phone told her that she had dozed off for only thirty minutes or so, in which the train hadn't continued its journey.

 _Just my luck to have a delay. So much for making it home before dark._

Molly shifted in her seat, drawing her knees to her chest. Deciding to forgo another nap to best save her sleep schedule for that evening, she grabbed the novel sitting on the seat beside her and gazed at the familiar cover. _Pride and Prejudice._

She had read it once before, sometime during secondary school, when she went through her classic romantic literature phase. She had burned through almost every work by Jane Austen, and even indulged in _North and South_ , _Withering Heights_ , and a reread of _Romeo and Juliet_ for good measure.

But _Pride and Prejudice_ had been her favorite. A wonderful love story filled with ups and downs and heart clenching moments that still warmed her insides and made her want to cry to this day.

And then there was Mr. Darcy. The epitome of a great, literary heartthrob. He was charming, and smart, and handsome, and just an absolute dream. Sure, he had his faults—his pride, his inconsideration for the feelings of others, his lack of social awareness, his cold demeanor, his aloof exterior, his—

Molly froze, her eyes staring at the illustrated image on the book in her hands. Her heart was pounding so loudly in her chest that she was convinced she could hear it.

Mr. Darcy was her favorite literary character, her teen years spent searching for a man who could fill his shoes and confess his undying love for her in the same manner. She lived through the iterations—the Colin Firth Darcy, the Matthew MacFadyen Darcy, the faceless Darcy she imagined in her wildest, deepest dreams.

Her heart began to beat faster as the horrid thought refused to leave her head.

She need not search for a Mr. Darcy anymore.

She had him.

And his name was Sherlock Holmes.

Xxx

As a HUGE P&P fan, it's pretty impossible not to see the similarities between Mr. Darcy and Sherlock. Obviously the two have some major differences, but their characterizations are extremely similar, even down to the jolly go-lucky best friend! I truly hope you enjoyed the first chapter-let me know what you think so I can get to posting the new chapter where we really get into the story!


	2. Follies and Vices

" _We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him." – Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice_

Few people truly liked Sherlock Holmes. Many envied him. Most respected him. All knew him. He was a special sort of man, the type that made you unsure of whether you'd rather snog him senselessly or smack him across his self-righteous face.

Yet, Sherlock had changed. He wasn't the man he was before he met John, before he got to know Molly, before he faked his death, before he met (and then lost) Mary, before he became a god father, before he… well before he lived. Truly lived.

But he hadn't changed that much. Not really. He was still an arsehole, desperate for the last word, refusing to keep his thoughts, regardless how rude or contradictory, to himself.

He was happy though. Things seemed as if they were almost back to normal. John was slowly returning to his old self, his depression and grief period after Mary's death cultivating in a forced, fake sort of acceptance. Sherlock didn't really mind if he was looking at a fraction of who John was. In the end, Sherlock was a selfish man. As long as the John Watson standing in front of him appeared and acted like his best mate, then he was satisfied.

Or that's what the old Sherlock would have said. The new Sherlock now had sentiment seeping through the newly formed hole in his chest. He felt guilt. And he felt loss. That acute, soul-sucking, body-numbing feeling of despair.

That was a first in 35 years.

So, he was working with John, trying to do whatever he could, more so than he ever had in the past, especially after John returned to him. He helped with Rosie, listened to boring tirades about football trades, and even watched those American cooking shows the Doctor had begun to fill his spare time with.

But it would never be enough. Not when he felt responsible for the bullet.

Sherlock glanced up at the ceiling, riddled with four-year-old bullet holes, and sagged his body against the worn sofa of 221B Baker Street. A soft sigh escaped his lips.

John was as back to normal as he ever would be. And Molly… well Molly had finally put her brain to good use and dumped that ridiculous git she had called a fiancé.

Sherlock also felt responsible for that. Had he been in London when the moron first showed up, he could have easily chased him off. He could have warned Molly that he had a startlingly low IQ, and that he snored like a 30-stone man, and that he still called his mother "mummy", and that he probably still had feelings for the girl he fell in love with when he was 15, and that—

Sherlock shook his head and sagged deeper into the sofa. That didn't matter now. Molly had the good graces to end her engagement, and again, things were back to normal.

Mrs. Hudson made tea whenever he'd like. Mycroft was back to using his overpriced treadmill on a weekly (although his brother claimed daily) basis. Lestrade was in a casual relationship with a woman he met online. Anderson now had a verging on irritating admiration for the detective, but Sherlock didn't mind that change too much.

Overall, everything was back to the way it should be.

Sherlock shifted on the sofa and stared into the beat-up cushions.

 _Then why do I feel so empty?_

Xxx

Molly was in the process of reinventing herself. After her realization that she was pawning over an unreachable literary character, she figured change was in order.

No matter how hard she tried, she would never be the head-strong, passionate, playful, proud woman that a Mr. Darcy would fall in love with.

It didn't matter how many books Molly read. She would never be Lizzie Bennett.

She whimpered and took a sip of her takeaway coffee, treading the last few steps from the tube station to St. Bart's.

 _Of all the Bennett sisters, why do I have to be Mary? At least if I was Lydia I'd be having good sex and be married by now._

Molly trudged inside, shaking off the raindrops that had pelted her plain, black umbrella. She looked from the neutral accessory, to her tan trousers, to her black rain coat covering her plain, navy blue cardigan. She couldn't help but whimper.

 _Lizzie is spunky and unique. I shop off the discount rack at Primark._

The pathologist tossed the empty takeaway cup into the bin before descending towards the lab, surprised to find the one and only Sherlock Holmes, hunched over his favorite microscope.

"Oh. Sherlock. Good morning. I wasn't expecting to see you," Molly offered politely, as she slid out of her damp coat.

She really hadn't been expecting to see Sherlock. Their relationship had gone through its typical ups and downs—he would offend Molly and then disappear, only to reappear when needing her help. This time had been no different. Mary's death had catapulted the detective into a dark place, and Molly seemed to be the only person capable of picking up the pieces, given John's own depression and anger at his friend. That task would have been easier had her heart also not been torn to shreds by the death of a friend, the ending of her engagement, and the loss of who the man she loved really was.

 _How do you help someone when you need help yourself?_

Molly took her hair out of its messy bun and began to retie the brown locks into a composed up-do. She glanced back over at Sherlock, who seemed to be entranced by whatever specimen he was looking at.

He was better now. Or, at least, he was clean. She stood by his side and made sure of it. Now he devoted his time to assisting John with Rosie, solving cases, or tormenting Mycroft. He was back to being Sherlock.

Untouchable, unreadable, unforgettable Sherlock Holmes.

Molly shook her head and fixed the buttons on her cardigan. She would have to forget Sherlock. In a romantic manner, anyhow. She had promised herself so, riding in a coach cabin of that delayed train, the rain pounding against her window like an unwelcome reminder of the tears she had shed over that man.

 _When my Mr. Collins comes around, I won't be saying no this time._

Molly busied herself at her desk, looking over the files that the new interns had set down before her arrival. She glanced over her shoulder, surprised to see that Sherlock had not moved from his position at the bench.

"Did you need help with something? You're normally not here this early."

Sherlock finally looked up from the microscope and over to Molly, his eyes red from both physical and mental exhaustion. Molly let out a small gasp.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

The detective couldn't help but let out a laugh. "Am I okay? What a typical and bland question, Molly. I expected more creativity from you."

Molly frowned and moved away from her seat and over to the detective, reaching her hand to touch his cheek. Her frown intensified as he flinched as soon as her hand met his skin.

"Sherlock, have you—"

The detective practically hissed. "Of course not. Do you think so low of me?"

Molly frowned. "No, Sherlock," she whispered, "but we all do stupid things when we're upset."

"What makes you say I'm upset?"

She gave him a look. "You clearly didn't sleep well last night and well…Sherlock you could sleep anywhere and through anything. Things rarely overwhelm you enough that you wouldn't be able to sleep."

Sherlock looked up and met Molly's brown eyes, surprised by her intimate knowledge of how his mind functioned. He shifted away from her hand and focused his attention back on the microscope.

"Rosie's birthday is coming up."

"I know," Molly whispered, a soft smile overcoming her features.

Sherlock gripped the edge of the work station, his eyes locked on the large instrument in front of him. "What do I get for a child whose mother sacrificed her life for my own?"

Molly frowned and stared at the consulting detective. She was at a loss for words. She had never felt so close to Sherlock, been given such an intimate look into his mind and his feelings. Yet, she was so far away, standing behind the hunched over detective, who seemed determined to keep himself occupied with the microscope in front of him. He still tensed under her gaze, flinched over her caresses, and bulked at her interest in his feelings.

 _Why don't you trust me yet? Why don't you need me like I need you?_

Sherlock returned his eyes to their place on the microscope, and changed the slide being examined.

"What sort of material gift will ever replace a mother's warmth? What teddy bear can say 'I'm sorry'? What plaything can go back in time and let me perish from that bullet?" Sherlock gripped the edge of the work station and dropped his head away from the microscope, now gazing at his lap, his face turned away from Molly's eyes.

"I already died once. What would it have mattered if I had died again?"

Molly hugged herself and just stared at Sherlock, who kept his eyes shut tight and his hands gripping the loose material of his trousers.

"Sherlock…"

The detective shook his head and finally sat up, moving his gaze to the brunette who stood behind him, seemingly stuck in the middle of the lab.

"Don't," he whispered, "There's no use in feeding me the lies and ridiculous justifications for death and pain that others so frequently throw around."

Molly continued to watch her friend, her heart both hurting and hammering in her chest. "Why not?"

Sherlock let out a humorless laugh. "Those words are empty."

The pathologist moved around Sherlock's stature, and stood beside him, leaning against the work station. She stared ahead, contemplating his words.

"When I was about six, my brother won me this goldfish at a festival. I was so excited to have a pet. My mum went out and bought me a fish bowl, and food, and anything you could need to raise this itty-bitty goldfish."

Molly smiled fondly at the memory, her gaze staring forward at the sterile walls of the lab. Sherlock continued to stare at his lap, too tired to even interrupt Molly's story.

"Since you're a smart bloke, you know how this story ends. I had poor little Alice for three days before I discovered her floating upside down. And you can imagine how six-year-old me reacted, screaming about the dead goldfish that cost my brother 2 quid and good aim."

Sherlock finally looked over at the brunette, taking in her soft features with his tired eyes. Molly turned to look at him and gave him a gentle smile.

"It was an awful day. But I just remember my father pulling me into his arms, and telling me that life would go on. That death was natural and was the circle of life. That death was cruel, and cunning, and flat out unfair. But that it was okay to die if you were happy with the life you lived up to that moment."

Molly sniffled and wiped her eyes, surprised to feel tears dripping down her rosy cheeks. "I think about those words often. My father assured me that Alice had lived a wonderful life, swimming in this beautiful new fishbowl, waking up those few days to my smiling face."

The pathologist laughed and wiped her cheeks again, although fresh tears continued to spill down. "And when my father died, I tried to remind myself of his words. Because he had lived a happy life too. He loved his wife, and his job, and his children. He got to visit the places he wanted. Do the things he had always dreamed of doing. I don't think he could have gone out any happier, except maybe with a pint in his hand."

Molly laughed through the tears that continued to run down her cheeks. She took the sleeve of her lab coat and desperately tried to stop the waterworks, but to no avail. Meanwhile, Sherlock watched her, his face unreadable.

"Mary died too soon, Sherlock. But she was so happy. She was married to a man she loved, and had a beautiful daughter, but most importantly, she gave up her life to protect someone else she loved. You, Sherlock. Mary loved you."

Sherlock continued to watch Molly, the only evidence of his devout attention being his Adam's apple bobbing from a nervous swallow at her words.

"It's only right to grieve her loss. But all you can do now is honor her memory by giving Rosie the best life you can. No toy or gift will ever replace the love of her mum. But that's okay."

Molly looked over at Sherlock and took a tentative breath before covering his clenched fist with her own small hand.

"Things will get easier. I promise."

Sherlock gave a slow nod, before looking down at their hands and back at the pathologist. Upon noticing his attention to their entwined limbs, Molly sighed and removed her hand. She took a step away from the work station and gave her face one final wipe with her sleeve for good measure.

"Sherlock?"

The detective looked back to Molly. "Yes?" He offered, his voice quiet.

"Will you let me help you?"

Sherlock stared at her, his blue orbs intense on her rosy face. "How?"

She smiled softly. "Stand up."

Sherlock sighed and rose to his feet, his eyes still locked on Molly.

Molly smiled softly and moved towards his towering frame, before wrapping her arms around his strong form. She felt his body immediately tense, before slowly relaxing as each second went by.

"My father's words mean so much to me now. But at that moment, when I lost Alice, the thing that made me feel better was his hug," she whispered into his chest, "So let me return the favor and at least once let me tell you that everything is going to be okay."

Molly felt him nod, and wrapped her arms tighter around his form. To her surprise, his arms slowly moved from hanging by his side to wrapping around her petite frame. She wasn't sure if she imagined it, but she swore she heard a quiet "alright" escape from his lips.

The pathologist shut her eyes and pressed her cheek to his chest, selfishly enjoying the sound of his beating heart against her ear. She pressed a soft kiss to the material of his shirt and took a deep breath.

"Everything is going to be okay."

Sherlock almost believed her.


	3. The Food of Love

" _Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can."_

Xxx

To say the morning had been arduous was an understatement. As expected, Sherlock practically bolted out of the lab after their hug ended, leaving Molly to her own devices and a stack of paperwork to shift through before even getting her hands dirty.

She couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock. Of course, that was nothing new but… her heart ached for him. He was so lost, and confused, and desperately needed to for once let his feelings out.

Molly frowned as she opened a new folder and dug into the papers stuffed inside. He needed her right now. And Molly was not a selfish woman. She would be there to help Sherlock through his struggles, just as she had before. But her romantic interest had to end.

Per typical Sherlock behavior, the detective entered the lab, seemingly knowing that her thoughts had drifted back to him. He held two takeaway coffees as he approached her desk, setting one down beside her folder.

"I bought Rosie a gift."

Molly looked at the coffee and back at Sherlock, unable to hold back her smile. "Yeah? What did you get her?"

Sherlock sipped his own coffee and looked around the lab, his face red from the brutal London wind. "A plush dog. A best mate that will always be there for her."

The pathologist smiled softly and sipped her coffee, unsurprised to find it flavored the way Sherlock took his own. "That's sweet, Sherlock. I'm sure she'll love it."

Sherlock just nodded and took a lap around the lab, his eyes moving over every inch of the sterile room. "If you died right here, right now, would you be happy?"

Molly set her coffee down and looked over at the detective, who now stood by her file cabinets. She sat up straighter, trying to process his question.

"Come again?"

Sherlock sighed, clearly annoyed by the necessary repetition. "Your father said that death was fine as long as you were happy with the life you lived. So, Molly Hopper, would you be content should death take you now?"

Molly frowned and played with the hem of her cardigan. "Well, I wouldn't want to die right now. I'm too young."

"That's not what I asked. This isn't a question of what you want or don't want. If you were to walk out of this lab and get hit by a bus, would you be satisfied with the life you lived until this very moment?" Sherlock stared at the brunette, his gaze unrelenting.

Molly looked up from her focus on her torso and back to Sherlock. "No, I wouldn't be."

Sherlock took a step back, rather surprised by Molly's response. "You… wouldn't be?"

"No. I wouldn't be."

Sherlock cleared his throat and fiddled with gloves, which he clasped tightly in his right hand. "Why not?"

Molly studied the detective for a few moments before answering. "I haven't done anything I've wanted to do. I want to travel the world. Take a road trip across the States. Backpack through the jungles of Vietnam. Lay in the sun in Sydney."

The pathologist took a deep breath, feeling her heart begin to pound rapidly in her chest. "I… I want to be with my soul mate. I want to get married. I want to have children. I want to own a home and have my own garden and see my mum more than once a month and get a dog and buy a car and just… live."

Molly let out a strangled breath, her cheeks bright red from her declarations. She met Sherlock's gaze, the detective appearing rather surprised by her confession. She looked away from Sherlock and couldn't help but frown, realizing how pathetic her life was. She hadn't done anything she had wanted to do. And here she was talking about marriage and children and a bloody family dog to the man she loved and could never have.

Sherlock shuffled his gloves from his right hand to his left hand and moved his gaze towards the floor. "I see."

Molly swallowed and focused her attention back on her paperwork, determined to finally get some work done. "You seem surprised."

"I am."

That got Molly's attention. "Why?"

"Of all the people I know, Molly, you are the only person who seems to always be happy. You're always so… cheerful. Always smiling."

"Oh… Thank you, I suppose. But I'm not always happy."

"I know. When you're not, it's typically because of me."

Molly sighed and shook her head. "Sherlock—"

He interrupted. "And if you, Molly Hopper, the pathologist with a smile always on her face, isn't happy with their life, then who truly is?"

Molly opened her mouth to respond, but instead stared wordlessly at Sherlock.

"I will see you on Sunday at John's. Mrs. Hudson is bringing the cake."

With that, Sherlock disappeared out of the lab doors, his Belstaff billowing behind him. Molly looked back at the papers sprawled in front of her, a fresh set of tears filling her eyes.

 _What do I do with him?_

Xxx

Sherlock laid across his sofa, his mind palace positively overflowing with details and conversations of his day to go over. He had no idea where to start. And of course, he was bloody exhausted. One moment continued to replay in his head.

 _I want to be with my soul mate._

The detective shut his eyes. He expected more of Molly than to be sucked into such superficial nonsense.

 _Is it nonsense? You didn't believe love existed until someone sacrificed their life for your own._

Sherlock growled and threw whatever he could get his hands on at the wall. At the sound of ceramic shattering, he looked over to notice one of John's old plates in pieces. He shrugged.

At the sound of footsteps outside the flat, he sat up, relaxing as soon as Mrs. Hudson entered the room, a tray with tea and biscuits in her small hands.

"Good afternoon, dear. I hope you had a good day," the old lady offered politely, her eyes looking over Sherlock with a knowing concern.

Mrs. Hudson set the tray down and took a seat in John's old chair, her eyes studying the tired detective. Sherlock reached over and grabbed one of the biscuits.

"It was uneventful. I went to the lab. Then to the shop to purchase a birthday gift for Rosie. Then back to the lab."

"Sounds like a lot of time with Molly," the old woman spoke cautiously, knowing she was entering dangerous territory.

Sherlock seemed unaffected by the comment and bit into the biscuit. "I suppose."

"What a shame she isn't marrying that boy. Tom, was it? Oh, he was lovely!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Lovely? He had the IQ of a primary school student and spent forty percent of his monthly income on sport betting."

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "We all have our faults, dear. Love helps us move past a lot of things."

The detective tensed. "She doesn't love him and never did."

Mrs. Hudson couldn't help but smirk. "You seem quite certain of that. But how would you know? You were dead for most of the relationship."

Sherlock flinched and finished his biscuit. "The engagement is over. Therefore, this conversation is a waste of time."

His landlord just nodded. "Right you are. I wonder if she'll be back on the dating scene anytime soon."

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat and grabbed another biscuit, focused on keeping himself busy. "Don't know. Don't care."

"Hmm… My nephew is coming to visit. I reckon they'd be a good match."

Sherlock snorted and took a bite of the biscuit. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a small smile. "I know things didn't work out with you and John but—"

The detective groaned and shook his head, irritated by the old woman's constant mislabeling of his relationship with his best friend. He paused and thought back to his earlier conversation with Molly and looked back to Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson, you're interested in rather… dull things. Tell me. Do you believe in soul mates?"

A giant smile grew on the older woman's face, her eyes twinkling under the fluorescent lighting of 221B Baker Street. "Oh yes, Sherlock, I do. They say that everyone has got someone out there for them."

Sherlock just shook his head. "Why?"

Mrs. Hudson offered a genuine smile. "Why not? Doesn't it sound wonderful? Knowing that somewhere on this earth, out of more than seven billion people, there's a person that's been made just for you? Someone who completes you. Someone who acts as your second half and makes up for all your shortcomings. It's… oh it's a bloody wonderful thought!"

Sherlock stared at Mrs. Hudson, curiosity overtaking his disbelief. "Your relationship with your husband failed."

"Because he wasn't my soul mate! I reckon people can fall in love and even live happily ever after with someone who isn't their other half but… I believe there's that perfect person out there for everyone. Even now. My soul mate is out there. I just hope I find him before it's too late." She laughed.

Mrs. Hudson rose to her feet and gave the detective a smile. "I know you probably think I'm just some batty old lady. And maybe I am. But sometimes it's nice to believe in something bigger than us. Gives us a greater purpose and all that."

She moved towards the door and grinned. "Get some sleep, dear. You're looking a bit pale."

With that, the older lady disappeared from the detective's gaze. Sherlock brought the teacup to his lips and took a tentative sip, thinking through the endless chatter of the women he had spoken to today. But of all the words spoken, one phrase stuck out above the rest.

 _My nephew is coming to visit. I reckon they'd be a good match._

Sherlock collapsed back onto the sofa and shut his eyes.

 _I'll just delete this all tomorrow._

He shifted into the worn-out cushions, Molly's form appearing behind his eyes.

 _Everything is going to be okay._

And like a lullaby, the promise soothed him to sleep.


	4. A Natural Defect

" _Your defect is a propensity to hate everybody."_

 _"And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them."_

Xxx

Unlike most Saturday mornings, Molly did not allow herself to sleep past 9am and laze about until her chores became unavoidable. She woke up only an hour past her normal 7am alarm (she was still only human) and proceeded to get on with the day. Before 10am had even crossed the clock, she had done her laundry, run to the shop for groceries and that special cat nip Toby loved, and even gone for a jog.

A jog! She was practically a new person. At any rate, she was in wonderful spirits as she walked down the busy street, holding her jacket to her petite form as the windy London air bit at her face. She had penciled shopping into her schedule to purchase Rosie a birthday gift, but somehow couldn't stop moving in and out of stores, her eyes drawn to the gorgeous dresses and shoes and fashionable ensembles that she had never had the guts to wear.

But after trying on a lovely red dress and an equally as gorgeous pair of black booties, she realized that she needed a change. Why was she so conservative with her fashion choices?

 _I'm not going to be young forever._

As she watched the cashier bag the outfit (along with a handful of additional items Molly had picked up), she knew she was doing the right thing.

She wasn't making a change or forcing herself to be someone she was not. She wasn't going out and wearing skin tight ensembles or fuck-me-pumps. She was simply dressing how she had always wanted to dress.

She would be smart. Elegant. Classically beautiful.

The new Molly Hopper was on the road to her debut. 33 years and 7 months in the making.

But the brunette still couldn't resist running into Primark, clearance section and all.

Xxx

Sherlock cradled the sleeping child to his chest, his eyes glued to the telly, intrigued by the football match playing. John sauntered into the room, two cups of tea in his hands. He sat across the Sherlock, looking between the telly and his friend.

"Ahh. Finally interested in football?"

Sherlock practically snorted. "No. But the child is asleep so I'm rather bored."

John rolled his eyes and sipped his tea. His eyes dropped down to his sleeping daughter, and couldn't help but smile softly.

"I appreciate you coming by tomorrow. I know you aren't exactly a fan of… people. There won't be too many," John's voice quieted, "especially with Harry still off the wagon and…" He shook his head.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes locked on the sleeping child's form. "The less, the better."

The two men sat in silence, only the noises of the telly and Rosie's occasion whimper filling the air.

The detective studied his friend, causing John to send him a curious look.

"Yes, Sherlock? Are you preparing to throw a deduction at me?"

"Would you like me to?"

John scowled. "Let's hear it then."

Sherlock chuckled. "You wanked last evening. Took a while too. Messed with your wrist. Hence why you're using your left hand to lift your cup. And of course, you're well rested but have a baby, so there's only one thing that could possibly put you to sleep."

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, before meeting Sherlock's gaze. A moment passed before the men broke into a fit of laughter.

Sherlock offered him a genuine smile before returning to his emotionless exterior. "May I ask you something?"

John sipped his drink and watched his friend. "You'll ask me regardless."

Sherlock just nodded, moving his gaze back down to Rosie. He ran his thumb over her chubby cheek, surprised by how adorable he found the child to be.

"Do you believe in soul mates?"

John lifted his tea back to his lips, frowning as he sipped the amber liquid. His eyes fell to his silver wedding band, still sitting on his left hand. Swallowing a croak in his throat, he offered a quiet, "I do."

Sherlock just nodded, his eyes still glued to Rosie. "Do you believe everyone has one?"

John set the cup down and settled into the chair. "I do. What's this about, Sherlock?"

The detective shook his head and finally looked back towards his friend. "Nothing, I suppose. I was just thinking about something Molly said to me."

"And that was?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, struggling to keep from waking up the child. "She said she wanted to be with her soul mate."

"Wouldn't you?" John asked, his eyes lingering on his best friend.

"What an absurd question. They don't exist."

John smiled softly. "Alright, Sherlock. But humor me. Say they did. Wouldn't you want to meet yours? To be with them?"

Sherlock looked back at Rosie and then to John. "What would be the point? People are unfairly taken from the world every day. Why would I spend my time getting to know someone only for them to disappear without notice?"

John gazed back at his wedding ring. "That's some backwards logic for a smart bloke."

Sherlock tensed. "How so?" He frowned and watched the child coo in her sleep. "When you die… it's not you who'll miss your life."

The doctor shook his head. "You can't live in fear of the inevitable. Besides…" John grasped his wedding band, twisting the smooth metal on his finger, "I rather experience true love and happiness even for it to end in heartbreak than to never experience it at all."

Sherlock blinked, clearly incapable of digesting John's words. "I don't understand."

John just chuckled and rose from his chair, moving towards Sherlock. He took his sleeping daughter and brought her to his chest, his fingers playing in her soft, blonde locks.

"I don't expect you too. Not really your niche, I reckon."

Sherlock pouted, his reaction ever like a petulant child. "It's nonsense. You, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson? How can you all believe such a ludicrous concept?"

John kissed Rosie's head before giving Sherlock a smile. "I dunno, Sherlock. Maybe it's only so absurd. Maybe you're the one thinking nonsense if the rest of the world believes in it."

Sherlock scowled. "Unlikely. You're all idiots."

"Idiots who know that the Earth circles the sun." John smirked and moved out of the room, leaving Sherlock to fume.

Xxx

Sherlock glanced at the clock, suddenly regretting his agreement to attend Rosie's birthday party. John's sitting room was filled with people he had no interest in seeing. A few of John's co-workers, the lady who babysat Rosie during the week, Lestrade and his newest girlfriend of the week, Anderson…

 _Why in God's name is Anderson here?_

Sherlock shook his head and sipped from the party cup, the sickeningly sweet juice hitting his tongue. His gaze locked on the cup, staring at the anthropomorphic pink pig in a dress staring back at him. He scowled before looking around.

John was chatting up some unknown brunette, who by the looks of her handbag was a single mother with a child similar in age to Rosie, and Lestrade, who seemed rather lost after his date went off after the loo.

So, Sherlock was quite relieved when Mrs. Hudson strolled in, a large white box in her hands. She offered the guests a polite hello as she strolled into the kitchen. Behind her, a younger man followed, his arms bogged down with two gift bags.

Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock and grinned. "Sherlock! I'm so glad you came. Are you enjoying yourself?"

Sherlock offered her one of his famous two-second smiles and took another sip of the saccharine juice. "Loads."

The older woman nodded excitedly, before turning to the man behind her and grabbing the gift bags. She deposited them by the window on a table filled with other gifts from party guests.

"Splendid! Here, come meet my nephew!" The older lady smiled and waved over the younger man, who strolled over to Sherlock, offering him a polite smile.

Sherlock looked to the man, his eyes examining every inch of the stranger.

 _Between 35 and 37. Makes more than 80 thousand pounds a year. Desk job. Accountant?_

He sipped his juice.

 _Avid runner. Suffering from shin splints. Never married. Not from London._

Sherlock took one last look at the man.

 _Enjoys cooking. Hopeless romantic._

He finished his juice and jumped to his feet.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"The name is George Wick. Pleasure!" George smiled and stuck out his hand, only for Sherlock to skirt around the gesture and move to refill his drink.

Mrs. Hudson gave George a soft smile, silently ensuring him that Sherlock's behavior was normal. She turned her gaze back to Sherlock.

"George is visiting from Liverpool. He just accepted a job up here, so he was looking at flats. I was helping," Mrs. Hudson gave her nephew a proud smile before looking back to Sherlock. "I'm so excited to have him around. He's a lovely cook."

George laughed. "I learned from the best, especially with you and mum there to teach me."

Mrs. Hudson let out a giggle and waved her hands. "Oh, nonsense George."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked around, already bored.

 _Where is Molly? At least she'd have stories of death to share._

George looked at Sherlock. "So, my aunt says you're a detective? That's wicked."

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose."

The well-dressed man made a face, clearly taken aback by Sherlock's shortness. "I've always been a big fan of detective stories myself. Nothing like a good murder mystery to pass the time, am I right?"

Sherlock sipped his newly filled cup. "Not for enjoyment, no. Do you enjoy people being murdered?"

George swallowed and shook his head. "No, I just meant—"

"I do enjoy solving murders, but I'm being proactive. I'm ridding the world of evil." Sherlock gave the man a look. "But you? By the looks of it, you're overly familiar with a balance sheet and your trusty calculator. So, no, you may not enjoy a murder mystery to pass your time."

Mrs. Hudson's nephew pulled at his collar, his cheeks now flushed red. The older lady met Sherlock's gaze and gave him a disappointed, knowing look.

Sherlock sighed and looked at George, before morphing his face into another creepy smile. He forced a laugh. "I'm just kidding. Pulling your leg. Murder is great."

George swallowed and then laughed, his shoulders relaxing. "Right, yeah, okay."

Sherlock was drawn away from Mrs. Hudson and the accountant by the opening of the door, and Lestrade's booming voice.

"Molly! You made it! You're looking fit!"

From the doorway, Molly strolled in, holding a perfectly wrapped present—the wrap adorned with that blasted pink pig. His eyes dashed across her body.

 _New dress. New shoes. New lipstick._

"Thank you, Greg," Molly said, her cheeks turning pink as she neared the gift table, quickly setting the box down. She exchanged hugs with Lestrade and John before catching Sherlock's eye. She smiled and began to walk over to him.

Sherlock evidently wasn't the only one to take notice, as George shifted next to the detective.

"Who is that? She's a stunner." George smiled and looked to Sherlock. "You know her?"

Sherlock scowled and sipped his drink, his eyes stuck on Molly's nearing form. "Nope. I've never seen that woman in my life."

Molly settled in front of the Sherlock and smiled. "Hi Sherlock. I'm glad you came." Her eyes drifted over to George and she offered the stranger a pleasant smile.

All the while, George glanced back over to Sherlock before turning to Molly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Hello Molly. Again, I'm here for Rosie. That's all."

Molly smiled and nodded. "I can't wait to see her. I hope she loves my gift."

Mrs. Hudson scurried over, her hands covering in her mouth in momentary shock. "My, my, Molly! Don't you look darling!" She looked over at George and gave him a look. "George, this is Molly Hooper." She looked at Molly. "Molly, this is my nephew."

Molly smiled and held her hand out, her brown eyes connecting with George's friendly, hazel orbs. "Hello. It's a pleasure. Your Aunt is wonderful."

George laughed and shook her hand, his gaze locked on the brown-haired beauty. "That she is. I'm George Wick by the way."

The couple exchanged smiles and continued to shake hands. Sherlock's eyes crossed their faces and settled on their hands, determining that the four seconds of connection was longer than the socially acceptable period.

Molly blushed and dropped her hand, quickly bringing it up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Are you visiting for long?"

Mrs. Hudson grinned. "My Georgie just accepted a job in London. He'll be packing up his stuff in Liverpool and here within the month!"

George laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, offering Molly a soft smile. "You heard the woman. I'm here until Tuesday, but I'll be packing up and back in about a fortnight."

Molly smiled and bit her lip. "That's wonderful. Congratulations on the new job."

"Thank you. But I could really use someone to show me around the city."

Mrs. Hudson gave the couple a knowing grin. "What a coincidence! Molly happens to know quite a lot about London. Isn't that so, Molly?"

The brunette blushed and nodded. "Well, sure, I suppose. I've lived here all my life." She laughed and settled her gaze on the man in front of her. "I'd love to show you around."

As the three babbled about logistics, Sherlock stared at Molly, momentarily taken aback by what was occurring in front of him. Since when did Molly flush in the presence of other men? And since when did she engage in a conversation in front of Sherlock and not direct all her attention on him?

Sherlock looked from the accountant, who now devoutly put her number into his mobile, to Molly, who stood with her gaze on George, clear as day filled with attraction and admiration.

The detective blinked and immediately settled his eyes back on George, determined to find something off-putting about the man.

 _Doesn't smoke. Doesn't drink. No debt. No illicit affairs. No secret children._

Sherlock crushed the stupid pig cup in his hands, causing the remaining sticky blue juice to cover his hand. Molly looked away from her mobile, where she had been committed to typing in George's number.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?"

Sherlock met her gaze, suddenly feeling ill at the sight of her soft, chocolate eyes.

"Splendid. Just unfortunately at a dull party."

With those words, Sherlock tossed the cup into a bin and strode off, determined to keep his attention from Molly Hooper and her newest idiot.

Xxx

It took John thirty minutes to go looking for the detective. After cutting into the cake and filming as much as he could of Rosie shoving the vanilla goodness into her tiny mouth, he noticed Sherlock's absence, specifically by the lack of snarky retorts filling the room.

Knowing Sherlock likely hadn't left, he ventured up the stairs, unsurprised to find Sherlock sitting in Rosie's nursery, his eyes glued to a Peppa Pig storybook.

"I imagined your literary tastes to be more… elaborate."

Sherlock looked up and shut the book. "Indeed. Imagine my surprise when Machiavelli wasn't on your daughter's bookshelf."

John couldn't help but chuckle. "What are you doing up here?"

The detective returned the book back to its rightful place and shrugged. "Needed an escape. I've been told to find other methods outside of getting high."

John gave him a look. "Right. You should come down. Mrs. Hudson's cake is a hit."

Sherlock scowled at the name, which immediately caught John's attention.

"Since when do you not like Mrs. Hudson's cakes? I've seen you go days eating nothing but her lemon drizzle cake."

Sherlock didn't see the need to reply and instead refocused his attention on Rosie's bookshelf, grabbing a Princess storybook. John watched his friend.

"Right. Did you meet her nephew? Nice bloke. Super smart. Said he'd take me to see a football game in Liverpool," John paused and added, "Apparently he's good friends with Klopp." An excited grin etched across his features.

Sherlock slammed the princess book closed and rose to his feet. John watched his friend curiously.

"What's gotten your knickers in a twist Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head and moved towards the door. "Nothing John. Absolutely nothing. Now, let's return to the party. I would like to watch Rosie open my gift."

John raised an eyebrow and nodded, his eyes watching Sherlock leave the room. A quick thought crossed his mind before he shook it off with a small laugh.

 _Please. As if Sherlock would be jealous._

Xxx

Molly couldn't believe how great of a day it had been. Not only had she worn her new outfit and received more compliments than she ever thought possible, but she also met an extremely handsome man.

An extremely handsome man who she was going on a date with.

But most importantly: an extremely handsome man that she was almost positive was not a sociopath.

As she kicked off her new boots, which based on the forming blisters on her feet, did not like her as much as she liked them, she couldn't help but smile. Rosie had loved her gift, John seemed to have genuinely enjoyed himself and Sherlock…

Well he wasn't inebriated so…

That was a start.

Molly stretched her arms to the pesky zipper on her back, her mind per usual, drifting back to Sherlock. She had only spoken a few words to him before he disappeared. She later saw him when Rosie was opening her gifts, but as soon as she gave the stuffed dog a hug, he disappeared again.

The brunette pulled the dress off the ground and hung it up, once again admiring the ensemble. She couldn't help but grin again as she discarded her bra and slipped into her well-loved dressing gown.

George seemed just positively lovely. She had spent the entire afternoon chatting with Mrs. Hudson's nephew, getting to know as much about the man as possible. He was an accountant, an avid runner, and according to the friendly landlord, an excellent chef. He had sparkling hazel eyes, and appeared to be a gentleman in every sense of the word.

Molly squealed and tossed herself back on the bed, thinking about her upcoming date with the man. He was leaving on Tuesday, but they agreed to grab dinner tomorrow night as soon as Molly finished work. Then, assuming things went well, she could look forward to seeing him again in a fortnight, when he would settle in London permanently.

She giggled and skipped into her bathroom, preparing to go through her evening routine, but halted at the ping of her mobile. She quickly grabbed it off her nightstand and positively beamed at the sight of George's name.

Things were looking up.


	5. Rocks and Mountains

" _The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it."_

Xxx

Sherlock strolled towards Molly's office the following morning, fully expecting the pathologist to be in her typical Monday mood. The return to the office after the weekend and her 9am meeting every Monday always seemed to put the brunette in a bad mood. So, at approximately 10:07am, the moment she would be fully settled back at her desk after the tedious meeting, he entered, two cups of takeaway coffee in his hands.

However, Sherlock halted, surprised to see Molly smiling at her desk, flipping through her meeting notes as if she had no cares in the world. Her usual frumpy work attire of neutral colored trousers and a cardigan from the juniors' section was replaced with a fitted black dress and a pair of panty-hose, not completely covered underneath her lab coat.

Sherlock blinked and took in her appearance.

 _She has a date._

Molly felt his presence and looked up from her paperwork. She smiled softly.

"Good morning, Sherlock. You didn't say goodbye yesterday."

Sherlock set the cup down. "Yes, well, I had plans. Had to hurry off."

"Oh? What kind of plans?"

The detective shrugged. "Anything but being surrounded by idiots and eating rainbow colored ice lollies."

Molly sighed. "So, I take it that you didn't have a good time?"

Sherlock sipped his coffee and merely shrugged, his eyes focused on Molly. "It's nothing personal. I rarely have a good time outside of solving a case."

Molly smiled sadly and grabbed the cup Sherlock had sat down, taking a sip. "Right. That's unfortunate. Could we change that?"

"Unlikely."

"We won't know unless we try though, right?"

The detective sat down in front of his favorite microscope and again shrugged. "Do you have any suggestions for things that would allow me to have a good time?"

Molly sighed and tapped her fingertips against the cold material of her desk, her eyes watching Sherlock. "At the moment, no. You're not easy to suggest hobbies too. You like solving murders, running experiments on body parts, shooting bullets into the wall, stabbing things, playing the violin and… insulting people."

Sherlock nodded. "Wonderful observations, Molly."

"I can't exactly suggest that you try baking or, I don't know, go for a run."

At the suggestion, Sherlock tensed up. "A run? Why would I run?"

Molly just laughed. "I dunno. I've never exactly enjoyed it. But George was telling me how wonderful it can be. Allows him to clear his mind and all that."

Sherlock shook his head and lowered his face to the microscope, quickly placing a new slide in the instrument. "Clear his mind? And what exactly would a well-paid number cruncher need to clear his mind of?"

Molly frowned at the return of his rude tone. "I don't know, Sherlock. But you're not the only person with demons."

Sherlock merely laughed and continued to look at the specimen below him. "Well, if it works for the accountant, it must surely work for me."

Molly crossed her arms and rose to her feet. "Sherlock, must you be an arse? He's a nice guy. And he's Mrs. Hudson's nephew."

Sherlock finally looked up from the microscope and couldn't help but glare at Molly. "Oh? So, if someone is kin, that makes them trustworthy?"

Molly made a face. "Oh, get on with it Sherlock! If you want to throw a bunch of accusations my way about him committing tax fraud, or dying his hair, or having three wives on four continents, you might as well do it now!"

The detective rose to his feet and continued his intense gaze. "Is it really so wrong that I want to protect you? That I want you to know when there's potential for you to get hurt?"

Molly laughed and shook her head. She approached the detective and poked his chest. "No, Sherlock, that is not what that is! You like to be in control. You get to control me with all of this magical information you have. And sometimes, it's a load of bull!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Jim was—"

Molly gave him a dangerous look. "Just because I went on a few dates with Moriarty does not mean I'm incapable of seeing what's wrong with someone!"

Molly began to pace, Sherlock watching her expectantly. She suddenly stopped and resumed her gaze on him.

"Sure, Tom had loads of problems. He snored a ton, spent way too much money on gambling, and his relationship with his mum was a lot to handle. But he was still a good guy! He cared about me."

Molly shook her head and grabbed her files, her back turned to Sherlock.

"Most people have no issue moving past whatever demons control them. Look at John. He's seen and experienced so much. But at his core, he's a genuinely nice bloke. But you, Sherlock? You let your demons and your bloody pride control every move you make and every emotion you feel."

Molly shook her head and moved towards the door. "I gotta go Sherlock. I have to get some work done if I'm ever going to leave at 6 for my date."

With those words, the petite pathologist disappeared out of her office, leaving Sherlock to absorb her meaning.

 _My pride?_

Sherlock scoffed.

 _I'm the most genuine, humble man around._

Sherlock popped the collar of his jacket and stormed out of her office, unreasonably angry at a bloke called George and a certain aerobic exercise.

Xxx

Molly dug into her pasta, her cheeks a pleasant flush from her handsome company, and her eyes focused on the gentleman across from her. George just smiled.

"My Aunt helped me pick a lovely flat up in Chelsea. I quite like it. You'll have to come by and see it," George remarked, following his words with a forkful of rigatoni.

Across from him, Molly beamed. "I'd love to. I wish I could give some design advice, but unfortunately I don't have the keenest eye for that sort of thing."

George laughed, his voice rich and earthy. "Not a problem. Once I'm settled in, I want to cook for you. Anything your stomach desires, I'll prepare. My treat."

Molly blushed and bit her lip. "I'd love that."

The hazel-eyed man grinned. "Sounds like another date then."

"I sure hope so."

The couple continued to feast on their over-priced pasta, Molly slowly being wooed by discussions of adventures all over the world and recipes gone awry, and her companion by beautiful chocolate eyes and the most genuine heart he had ever encountered.

Xxx

Approximately one tube change and six stops over, a different scene was transpiring at Baker Street. Sherlock sat at his desk, his laptop open, newspapers covering his desk, and his hands filled with bunches of his curly hair.

"This isn't possible!" He practically growled, his eyes glued to the LinkedIn profile of one George Wick.

John walked into the sitting room from the kitchen, Rosie strapped to his chest in a baby-carrying contraption. He looked at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

"Something amiss, Sherlock?"

The detective growled. "No, no, NO!"

John sighed and sat in his old chair, his hands gently combing Rosie's soft locks. "Sherlock."

"SHUT UP!"

John shut his eyes and counted to 10 (a wonderful trick he had taught himself when dealing with Sherlock) before opening his eyes and returning his gaze to the detective.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock hissed and finally turned to look at John, his curls askew from his hands pulling at the strands. "I can't find anything."

"You can't find anything on what? Did you get a new case and not tell me?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "Of course not, John. Don't be an idiot."

John sighed. "Clearly I'm missing something."

"Obviously."

John leaned his head back on the chair, suddenly questioning his own presence at Baker Street. He sat back up when he heard Sherlock rise to his feet.

"It's that bloody accountant. I can't find anything terrible on him."

John blinked. "The accountant?"

Sherlock growled. "Yes John, the accountant."

John moved his eyes to the somehow asleep Rosie and racked his brain for any accountants they knew. He thought back to the party the previous evening, and his five-minute conversation with Mrs. Hudson's nephew.

"You're referring to Mrs. Hudson's nephew. George."

"Obviously."

"Why are you looking for terrible—" John stopped speaking, his face slowly rising into a smirk. Sherlock noticed his expression and glared.

"What?"

"Molly is going on a date with him, isn't she?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Why do you ask?"

John laughed. "Well, he asked me about her. Seemed rather taken after their conversation. And after you left, they spent the remainder of the afternoon together."

The doctor kissed Rosie's head, his eyes still locked on Sherlock. "Oh, and of course the fact that you always stalk Molly's dates in desperate attempts to prevent them from occurring."

This time Sherlock just blinked. "I don't 'stalk' her dates. Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh, Sherlock, believe me, I'm not."

Sherlock scowled and began to pace the room, not bothering to pay any extra attention to John's words. "I've spent three hours scouring every one of my contacts and databases for something dirty on him and the worst thing I could bloody find was a parking ticket for four years ago in Manchester! No crazy ex-wives, no secret children, no tax evasion, nothing!"

John couldn't help but smirk. "That's a good thing, yeah? That means you can give Molly your seal of approval."

The detective narrowed his eyes at John and turned away, instead focusing his attention out the window and on the hustle and bustle of Baker Street. From behind him, John just continued to smirk.

"But you don't want to give her your seal of approval. You want to tell her she can't date him."

Sherlock growled. "I don't care who Molly dates, as long as they aren't intent on destroying the state or the bloody world."

John laughed, earning another glare from Sherlock. "Why won't you just admit what this is really about?"

"Which is?" Sherlock practically hissed.

John just smirked again. "Use those investigatory skills. Or better yet, ask Mycroft. He knows everything."

With that, John jumped to his feet and slid into his coat. He looked once more at Sherlock.

"You know, Sherlock, I reckon you've just walked head first into your biggest case of all."

John opened the door and gave Sherlock one last infuriating smirk.

"Good luck with that."

The doctor disappeared with his daughter, leaving Sherlock for the second time that day at a loss for words.

 _What bloody case? What in God's name is that idiot talking about?_

Sherlock glanced around the room, before landing back on his open laptop. He immediately returned to his seat and began typing furiously away on the keys.

He had to find something.

He just… had to.


	6. Recipe for Happiness

" _It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began."_

Xxx

Sherlock spent the next three days scouring every bloody database, reaching out to every contact (both in London and Liverpool), and seeking out favors he was owed to find anything on George Wick.

 _It's impossible for him to be this clean. John was relatively clean but I still found porn subscriptions and a shoplifting charge from when he was 15._

The detective continued his march onwards, the angry London weather attacking his exposed hands, gloveless after he stormed out of his flat in a fit of rate. All he could think about was his row with Molly from earlier in the week. Never had he given so much thought to anything that another person had accused him of.

 _I don't let my demons control me._

His feet stopped as he neared the familiar house, the disgusting smell of sewage and failed dreams permeating in the thick air of the docklands. His eyes roomed the exterior of the rundown house, recognizing a few familiar faces moving in and out.

His hands shook as he thought about the possibilities. The delicious high. The mind-numbing, stress-relieving, problem-cleansing ride of his life that only the products of that house could give him. And God, could he use a distraction.

He took a step forward and froze again, a horrible feeling paralyzing his entire body. For some bizarre reason, he was thinking about how his actions would affect those that he… cared about.

 _Would Mrs. Hudson cry and beg me to seek help?_

 _Would John shun me and prevent me from seeing Rosie?_

 _Would Mary roll over in her grave, cursing the Gods for having sacrificed her life for my pathetic existence?_

 _Would Mycroft be the only child suitable enough to see mother and father?_

But while his overactive brain spared but one thought for the few people in his life, the thought of his use on Molly practically knocked him over.

 _Would she hate me? Would she stop talking to me? Would she regret the time she spent helping me recover? What about the times she put her life and career at risk for my own sake? Would she marry that bloody accountant?_

Sherlock took a deep breath and took a step backwards, his eyes still locked on the house. He shook his head and turned around, heading to hail a cab.

 _I don't let my demons control me._

Xxx

The morning following her row with Sherlock, Molly was unsurprised to find Sherlock absent from her office. She was surprised, however, that his absence would last for another three days, leaving her workplace quiet and…boring all the way until the weekend.

As she jumped back on the tube on Friday evening, a bag of Italian takeaway by her side, she couldn't help but grin. Since her date on Monday evening with George, the pair had texted nonstop. They even had plans to video chat on Sunday.

Molly almost squealed. She couldn't recall the last time she was this excited about a bloke.

 _That is, a bloke who has interest in me._

After meeting Tom, her thought process was more "might as well get married before I get old and fat" than "wow I really like this guy". And pre- and post- Tom… Well, any date she had seemed to be infiltrated or flat out prevented by Sherlock. Of course, there was Moriarty, but before Tom, there was also Vlad (just wanted easier access to citizenship), Patrick (owed a substantial amount of money to a call girl service), Eric (two wives on two different continents), Liam (warrant for arrest in the States) and the list could go on.

After Tom… well prior to her trip to Scotland, she had spent all her time pining after Sherlock, leaving her no time for dating. Fast forward a few months, and she now was back on the market.

At the thought of George, her mobile pinged again. She checked the screen to see the text from the man, this time with an article about a new bog body found in Ireland, and how he thought she'd enjoy the news.

Molly couldn't help but beam. Since when had she gotten along so well with a man before?

She practically skipped the rest of the way home, entering her flat in an almost daze. Some song from an advertisement on the telly escaped her lips in a gentle hum, her hands occupied with unpacking her dinner.

Her happy daze was so strong that it took her a solid three minutes to realize that she wasn't alone. At the sight of Sherlock sitting in one of her chairs, concealed in the darkness sans the light seeping in through the window, she practically screamed.

"Bloody hell Sherlock!" She squealed, one hand clutching her chest, the other clutching her kitchen counter. "I won't bother asking why you're here, but can you at least notify me when you are?"

Sherlock didn't move, leaving his face concealed in the darkness. "I did. My jacket is hanging on your coat rack. I thought you had better observational skills Molly. I'm disappointed."

Molly brought her hands to her face and began to rub her temples. She sighed. "Can you do it how normal people do it? A text? A note? Maybe turn the lights on?"

At her last words, the lights magically turned on, Sherlock's entire existence now illuminated by the standing lamp beside him. He dropped his hand, which had been clasping the switch to the lamp, and gave her a two-second grin.

Molly groaned. "Right. Well I'm going to eat dinner now and watch—"

" _Grey's Anatomy_. Unless you watched this week's newest episode while you bathed last evening. In that case, _MasterChef_."

"How'd you figure that?"

"You watch _Grey's Anatomy_ every Friday, except for the occasional instance when you watch Tuesday night's episode during your Thursday evening bath. Then, you watch a re-aired episode of MasterChef."

Molly practically whimpered. "Right. Well, I did watch _Grey's_ in the bath. But I'm actually going to start watching _Game of Thrones_. George is a huge fan and says I need to catch up."

She smiled and grabbed her plate, moving towards the telly, a grin plastered across her face. She didn't notice the darkening of Sherlock's features as the name left her lips. After a few moments of navigating her telly, she looked towards Sherlock, who remained in the chair, eyes focused on Molly.

"Would you like to join? Or are you just going to sit there in your mind palace?"

"I'm not in my mind palace."

Molly sighed and shook her head, per usual annoyed by Sherlock's vagueness. She dug into her chicken alfredo, practically moaning as the noodles hit her taste buds, and pressed play on the first episode. She snuggled into the sofa, Toby appearing by her knees, and ate another forkful.

She enjoyed about five minutes of the first episode before Sherlock's deep voice drew her out of her viewing.

"I went to a drug house today."

Molly jumped off her seat on the sofa, quickly setting her plate down. Her eyes met Sherlock, her gaze frantic yet furious.

"Sherlock! How could—"

Sherlock waved his hand, irritated by her tangent. "Enough. Even if I was interested in purchasing drugs, Mycroft has made it virtually impossible. I'd be better off manufacturing my own."

At his response, Molly relaxed slightly, but maintained an angry glare at Sherlock.

"I wanted to test your theory."

Molly continued to glare at him. "My theory? What in God's name are you talking about Sherlock?"

"Monday morning, you accused me of letting my demons control me. So, I went to the site of one of my vices, to see how my mind and body would react."

Molly cleared her throat. "Yes? Well?"

Sherlock looked towards the brunette, his blue eyes intensely watching her chocolate ones. "I admit, at first it was tempting but… I had no interest in touching the stuff."

Molly relaxed further. "Why?" Her voice was soft.

The detective shifted in his chair, his gaze still locked on hers. "I'm not quite sure. It was odd. At the sight of the house and how weak and alone everyone appeared, I thought back to many things. Mary's last words to me. Rosie's chubby cheeks. John's humor. But… mainly to you," Sherlock swallowed, for once finding it difficult to put his thoughts into words.

"I thought about your disappointment and your selfless concern when I first started using. I thought about all the ways you've gone above and beyond to help me, from giving bodies, to assisting cases, to just… being my friend."

Sherlock took a deep breath, continuing to watch Molly as her chocolate eyes glossed over in tears.

"And when I thought about these things, suddenly any desire I had to use, to block out the pain, to feel empty, just… vanished."

Molly wiped her cheeks, which had been assaulted by an onslaught of tears, and jumped from the sofa. Sherlock watched the tiny woman, entranced by her actions. He managed to blink before she was on him, attacking him with yet another hug.

"Oh Sherlock…" She managed to choke out, "that makes me so happy to hear. Don't you understand how many people care about you? How many people love you?"

She sniffled and put her head on his shoulder, holding his body close to her own. Sherlock remained frozen, only shifting to gently place his hands on her back.

"Someone will always be here for you. Just how you've always been here for us. Please never forget that."

Molly pulled away, giving Sherlock a soft, soul-soothing smile. She pressed a light kiss to his cheek.

Sherlock stared at her at a loss for words. He looked into her brown eyes, suddenly reminded of the Galaxy bars he used to savor as a child, the sweets a constant treat whenever he excelled in school or didn't berate Mycroft.

He was reminded of the cocoa shade of his violin, a constant companion even in the darkest of days, there always to give and never to take. An outlet for his stresses, and his vices, and his demons.

He was reminded of the dark gleam of a strong cuppa from Mrs. Hudson, the comforting warmth a consistent escape to happier days, to freedom, to friendship.

 _Have her eyes always been that brown?_

Molly beamed at him, her smile as always, contagious. His eyes shifted from the dark brown to the gleaming white.

"Will you join me to watch Game of Thrones? I reckon you may not enjoy it but… I'd like for you to watch with me."

Sherlock swallowed, nodding slowly. He moved over to the sofa and sat besides Molly. She grinned and grabbed the remote, restarting the show. She grabbed her plate and continued to eat her now room temperature dinner. Toby scampered across the sofa and settled between the adults, burying his face in Sherlock's hips, ready to take a nap.

The detective shifted his gaze from the telly to Molly, who contently ate her dinner and watched the show, to Toby, who remarkably had already dozed off. He relaxed and attempted to watch the show, but every few moments was drawn back to the woman beside him.

He was alarmed by how content he felt at that moment.

Xxx

Within the next few weeks, Sherlock found himself with two consecutive monster cases, approximately a seven and a nine respectively. The seven was a delightful kidnapped dog turned into housewife murder turned into a serial killer husband with a secret family in Cardiff, and the nine morphed from synthetic heroin to sex trafficking to the American mafia to Ivory smuggling.

That one had been especially fun.

Now finally able to take a deep breath and relax, Sherlock laid back in his favorite chair, currently entranced in his mind palace. He was evaluating the two cases, determining what to keep and what to toss. It was the only way to keep his palace neat and tidy.

John entered the flat, immediately pausing his movements to look over Sherlock, before rolling his eyes and strolling into the sitting room. He collapsed into his old chair, bringing his hands to rub his eyes.

"I suppose you haven't been getting much sleep from all our running around." Sherlock remarked, his eyes still shut, his form still settled in his chair.

John laughed. "From working on the cases? Please. Try sleeping with a bloody one year old," he paused and thought over his words before adding, "Although I suppose dealing with you should have prepared me for this."

Sherlock opened his eyes simply to roll them. "Ha ha John. Delightfully funny. Is that part of your stand-up routine?"

John looked thoughtful. "You reckon I should try stand-up?"

The detective scowled. "Why are you here? I instructed Molly to come by with some livers. Now, unless you plan on aiding me with my experiment, your presence isn't needed."

At his words, almost on cue, Molly strolled in, a white, Styrofoam cooler box in her arms. She smiled at the pair.

"Oh, Sherlock, that's no way to talk to your friends," She warned, before setting the box down.

John smirked. "Exactly, Sherlock. That's no way to talk to friends. Apologize."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and instead focused on Molly. "Were you able to secure five? Two females, one older than 60, and three males, one younger than 30?"

She nodded and set her handbag down, momentarily ignoring the ping on her mobile. "I was. But the more specific your requests get Sherlock, the more difficult they become," she reminded him.

Sherlock waved off her comments and hurried over to the box, looking like a child on Christmas morning. He slipped his hands into a pair of latex gloves and began to pull the goods out.

From across the room, John watched in morbid fascination, and Molly pulled her mobile out, smiling at the message and tapping away on her screen in response.

As Sherlock began to cut into one of the livers, Molly's phone pinged again. He ignored the sound and began to make intricate cuts, his mind filling with approximately 35 possibilities for how he wanted to organize his experiment.

"So, what exactly are you doing?" John finally asked, looking over at the livers, his face turning a shade of green.

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by yet another ping on Molly's mobile. Narrowing his eyes in irritation, his shifted his gaze from John to Molly, startled to find her entranced by the device, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and her cheeks a dark shade of red.

Molly noticed his attention and squeaked, quickly shoving her mobile back in her bag. "Sorry! What were you saying?"

Sherlock growled and continued cutting. "I was going to say that my primary interest is discovering—"

Her mobile pinged again. Molly furiously dug into her handbag and pulled out the device, quickly reading the message.

Sherlock scowled. "Who in God's name are you texting that is so important? Better be the bloody Queen."

John grinned. "Nope. I reckon it's her new boyfriend."

Molly blushed and gave John a look. "He's not my boyfriend. Well, not yet anyways," she added with a soft laugh.

"Oh, please! You've gone on plenty of dates with him. Every time I see you you're texting him. He is most certainly your boyfriend," John added, giving Molly a knowing smirk.

Molly flushed darker, if that were even possible. "Alright. I reckon he's my boyfriend."

Sherlock looked between John and Molly, his mind working overdrive. Before he could even spit out a question or a snarky retort, Molly grabbed her handbag and moved towards the door.

"Well, I need to head home. I have a…" She looked at John and laughed, "date with George so I ought to be going. But I'll see you two this weekend for dinner. Cheers!"

Molly smiled and slipped out of the flat, leaving John with a pleasant smile on his face, and Sherlock… looking like Sherlock, albeit paler. John shifted his gaze over to his friend and raised an eyebrow.

"You good, Sherlock?"

"How did you know they were dating?"

John gave Sherlock a look. "Oh, come on, Sherlock. It's obvious. She's happier. Every time we see her, she's on her phone nonstop. Not to mention, I actually listen to her. Every time I see her we talk about our lives and this bloke has become a part of hers."

Sherlock just blinked. "She's… happier?"

"I would say so. Always smiling. Seems more cheerful. I ran into the two of them the other day. They were shopping for stuff for his flat with Mrs. Hudson. He and I are going down to Liverpool next month to catch a match," John added with a childlike excitement.

Sherlock looked down to his livers and fell deep into thought. A moment passed before he shifted his gaze back to John.

"You may go now."

John just laughed. "What's gotten into you, Sherlock?"

The detective growled. "John, go."

John raised an eyebrow but didn't feel like fighting. He slipped into his coat, his eyes still locked on Sherlock, who per usual, was unreadable.

"I can tell what's going on Sherlock. We can talk about it."

Sherlock slammed his latex covered hands to the kitchen counter, causing the livers to shake. He narrowed his eyes, continuing to glare at John.

"I said go!"

John shook his head and left the flat, slamming the door in the process. Sherlock took another look at the livers before feeling ill. He tossed his gloves into the bin before trudging into the sitting room, leaving his organs to rot.

He picked up his violin, his ever-trusty companion, and began to play, unsure why he felt so… empty.

A melancholic tune soon filled the room.

 _I reckon he's my boyfriend._

Xxx

Note:

As usual, thank you for reading! I appreciate all of the lovely feedback I've been getting—reviews really let me know how people feel about my stories and they're the best encouragement I could ever ask for. I envision this being about 12 to 15 chapters, so we're almost midway there. Thanks again! Depending on the response I may post the new chapter this weekend… we finally get Mycroft then : )


	7. The Appearance of Humility

" _You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure."_

Xxx

 _Sherlock was a precocious seven-year-old, always on the move and after new knowledge. Even though he liked to think of himself as unique or special, he was rather like other children his age, sans his extensive intellect and harsh personality. So, maybe not so much like the other children._

 _He did go through phases of interests, beginning with his desire to be a world explorer, followed by a pirate, followed by his new fascination with animals. His childhood fondness of the Peter Rabbit stories and watching animal programs on the telly led him to his current hobby of rabbit watching._

 _He discovered the rabbit family two weeks ago, comfortably burrowed in mother's garden, feasting on carrots, and rhubarb (which his encyclopedia incidentally told him was poisonous for the animals), and whatever else they could get their tiny hands on. He was sure there were three of them— a mummy, a daddy, and a little tyke, who Sherlock had decided to name Peter, after the literary bunny._

 _So, Sherlock spent his Saturday morning following any movements he found the family making. He held his magnifying glass in one hand, his flip journal in another, and hid behind the fence, watching as Peter exited the burrow, looking around the expanse of the Holmes' land._

 _Sherlock reckoned the rabbit was no more than six months old. Of course, he was only going off what his animal encyclopedia said, but unfortunately, the book had little information on rabbits._

 _He rather liked the little rabbit, favoring him over the parents. The mother seemed rather lazy and rarely left the burrow, and the father was always on the move. Peter, however, would make eye contact with Sherlock and stay entranced by the human's presence, allowing Sherlock adequate time to take notes about the species' behavior._

 _As the tiny rabbit moved past the fence of the Holmes' garden and towards their home, Sherlock watched, fascinated by his tiny hops. He quickly scribbled a few sentences about the movements of the rabbit, admiring his focus and steady determination to move towards what appeared to be a bed of flowers._

 _Sherlock watched for another few moments, smiling as the rabbit neared the family shed, where his father currently occupied, doing who knows what. However, Sherlock's smile quickly faded as the sound of an engine began, and his father rode out of the shed, mounted on their ride-on lawn mower._

 _The seven-year-old barely opened his mouth to shout at poor Peter, who hopped along, focused on the flowers, before the machine had gobbled him in and spit him out. Sherlock dropped his journal and magnifying glass, staring at the rather gory scene before him._

 _Feeling the jerk of the machine, his father shut it off and hopped down, quickly noticing the mess. He made a face of disgust._

" _Ugh, pesky little buggers. Now I gotta clean the gears," the man grumbled, rather annoyed, as he walked back into the shed._

 _Sherlock continued to stare at the mess, unmoving. From the house, Mycroft walked out, wearing his school uniform, even on a Saturday during summer holiday. He looked at Sherlock curiously before walking over._

 _He stopped beside his younger brother, following where the boy's gaze met the mess on the grass. He shook his head disappointedly before looking back at Sherlock, who now appeared to have tears in his eyes._

" _What a shame. Was that the rabbit you had been following around?"_

 _Sherlock offered a weak nod. "I… I tried to warn him but… What will his mummy and daddy think?"_

 _Mycroft rolled his eyes. "They're animals, Sherlock. Their feelings are irrelevant. And everyone dies. What did I tell you about this sort of thing?"_

 _Sherlock looked at the 14-year-old, valuing every word that escaped his lips. "To avoid caring because it only brings you pain in the end," he whispered, his voice soft and sad._

" _Precisely. You developed feelings for a rabbit and that rabbit is now dead. You're now sad. Caring makes you weak. Avoid sentiment."_

" _Sentiment?" the boy asked, unsure of the new word._

" _Sentiment. The same as caring. Developing feelings for something. Avoid it at all costs. Don't you want to be better and smarter than all the other children?"_

" _Yes," was all the younger boy mustered out._

" _Exactly. Then don't do anything silly like have a bloody wake. It was a rabbit."_

 _With that, Mycroft offered one final eyeroll and headed back towards the house, his head as usual held rather high. Meanwhile, Mr. Holmes kept himself busy by cleaning the gore from his mower's gears._

 _Sherlock on the other hand moved towards the flower bed that Peter had been heading to and pulled a handful from the ground. He made sure of Mycroft's absence before moving back towards his mother's garden, and towards the Rabbit family's burrow._

" _I'm sorry for your loss," the boy whispered, before setting the flowers down by their entrance._

 _Sherlock turned and began heading towards his house, his eyes watering at he realized that the rabbits wouldn't know that their son was gone. They would never get to say goodbye._

" _Everyone dies," he whispered to himself, a constant reassurance that the rabbit was nothing special._

 _That no one was special._

Sherlock bolted up in his bed, his body covered in sweat and his hair sticking to his face. He ran a shaky hand through the messy locks, his fingers getting caught in the tangled curls. He then rose to his feet and slid into his dressing gown, before trudging towards the kitchen, his throat uncomfortably dry.

What an awful dream. He, unfortunately, remembered the moment well. At seven-years-old, he had made the mistake of appreciating the company and the presence of another heartbeat, only to have the loss devastate him in the end. Thankfully, unlike the rest of the idiots populating the world, he had learned his lesson in primary school.

As he took desperate sips of water, from a bottle that must have been stocked by Mrs. Hudson, he thought back to Mycroft.

His older brother may irritate the hell out of him, but he was normally right.

Sherlock growled and crushed the now empty bottle. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, immediately gagging from an awful stench. Upon covering his nose and looking around the dimly lit kitchen, his eyes eventually landed on five rotting human livers scattered across his kitchen counter. He scowled.

 _What a waste of an experiment._

Sherlock ignored the smelly mess and trudged back to his bedroom, hoping that sleep would clear his unusually muddled mind.

Xxx

Mycroft Holmes studied the curly-haired man across from him, his eyes immediately drawn to the strangely reticent nature of his normally forward brother. Sherlock watched Baker Street from his window, his knees bouncing up and down in distress, his hands firmly wrapped around a fresh cuppa curtesy of Mrs. Hudson.

Given the circumstances, Sherlock's behavior could be attributed to a variety of things. A strained relationship with John, his intense grief following Mary's death, a humbling guilt for her sacrifice, the physical pains of drug withdrawal…

But as Mycroft watched Sherlock sip his tea and stare out the window, his mind clearly on overdrive, he had a clue as to what was distracting his younger brother. He was both relieved and alarmed.

"So. You've had an eventful month. The Yard was thrilled to see you wrap up your two most recent cases, so beautifully done with a bow on top, too."

"The bow was John's idea. Made for a fun photo for the blog."

Mycroft just nodded. "Indeed. And the drugs? My intel followed you to the Docklands and a familiar house."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and finally looked away from the window and towards his brother. "Obviously you know the answer to that considering I'm not high. I wasn't attempting to make a purchase. I was simply doing a personal investigation."

"Of what exactly?"

"Molly suggested that I let my demons control me. So, I wanted to visit a location of my demons and test that theory."

Mycroft sipped his own tea, his eyes locked on his younger brother. "You appear to care quite a bit about what Miss Hooper has to say about you."

"Dr. Hooper," Sherlock quickly corrected.

"Right. My intel also reports that she has entered a relationship with your landlord's nephew. Her first relationship since her failed engagement."

Sherlock tensed in his chair and sipped his tea, his eyes moving back towards the window, the gears in his head beginning to turn again. "Why are you telling me this? I'm aware."

"I just wanted to remind you of the current situation."

Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, narrowing his eyes in the process. "What exactly are you implying, Mycroft? It's unlike you to be so cryptic. You always have oh so much to say."

Mycroft shifted in his seat, bringing his left leg to cover his right, his eyes locked on his younger brother's form. "I'm simply reminding you not to get attached. That's all."

Sherlock let a bitter laugh escape. "Oh, yes, I'm quite aware. Avoid caring. You can't get hurt if you don't care about anything."

"Precisely."

Sherlock scowled and shook his head, already fed up with his brother's visit. "If you're implying that I care for Molly, then you are mistaken," he gazed back towards the window before continuing, "I care for her as I care for John, or Rosie, or for some god-awful reason, you. That is all."

Mycroft watched his brother. "Right. As always, Sherlock, my goal is to protect you. Nothing more."

Sherlock let out another growl from deep in his throat. "Splendid. Is this why you came? To repeat your propaganda like a bloody parrot?"

"You did always want to be a pirate."

The younger man gave his brother a nasty glare. "Alright, Mycroft. Let's enter a hypothetical situation. Play a game. What would occur if I did begin to care?"

"You would get hurt," he replied simply.

"And why is that?"

"For many reasons. You lack the social awareness to ever be in a long-term relationship, have the maturity of a fourteen-year-old boy, have erratic tendencies and an addictive personality, and the list could go on."

Sherlock scowled. "Is that all, brother dearest?"

Mycroft rose to his feet. "No, not at all," he ventured towards the door and slipped into his jacket. "Most of all, you're losing."

That captured Sherlock's attention. "I'm losing?"

"Of course. Love is a game. Caring is losing. But you also have lost her affection and her attention to another man. Therefore, you lost the game."

Sherlock shifted in his chair, his fists unconsciously gripping the leather armrests of the seat. "Right. So how would I win?"

"You follow my advice. Avoid sentiment. But if you must hold the wake, you simply don't give up. You play smart."

With that, Mycroft opened the front door of the flat and turned back to look at his younger brother, who seemed to be yet again lost in his thoughts. He couldn't help but sigh. His original assumption was right.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" The detective practically spat out.

"I know about the flowers. You didn't listen then and I reckon you won't be listening now."

And with that final statement, Mycroft was gone.

Xxx

Molly hadn't seen Sherlock since stopping by Baker Street with his precious livers, almost three weeks ago. John had notified her that he and Sherlock were off to Birmingham to follow a suspect of a case, and she had ended up babysitting Rosie for a weekend, entrusting Mrs. Hudson with the child when the work week started back up. She knew that John and Sherlock were back in London, but apparently still after some psychopath that she frankly didn't want to hear anything about.

She in the meantime had kept busy with work and George. The two of them were doing well, and since George had settled into his new flat and his new job, he had more time to spend with her. In fact, they were already discussing a weekend holiday to take in the next month or so.

Molly was happy. George was sweet, smart, handsome, and most of all, showed no signs of being a sociopath. He was everything she could ever want in a man.

 _Then why are you always checking your mobile for word from Sherlock? Can you admit out loud that you're bored?_

Molly shook her thoughts off and crawled into bed, Toby following her and curling into her side. She opened her night stand drawer and pulled out _Pride and Prejudice_ , deciding to finish her reread that she began on her trip in Scotland.

She made it three pages in before drifting off into a much-needed sleep.

Xxx

" _I love you. Most ardently."_

 _He stood in the rain, his dark curls sticking to his damp skin, his eyes pleading with her to understand his struggle. His boots now carried mud to his calves and his normally perfect tail coat swayed in the brutal wind. All the while, his movements continued towards her, his hands practically reaching for her, so close, yet so far away._

" _Sherlock…"_

" _Please do me the honour of accepting my hand."_

 _He reached forward, taking her trembling hand into his own, pressing soft kisses to her knuckles. Molly looked down at her own appearance, startled to find her billowing white gown coated in mud, her half-jacket stuck to her body from the falling drops._

 _Her eyes traveled back up Sherlock's body, noticing his top hat by his panicking horse, apparently lost in the wind of the environment. Her eyes met his blue orbs, entranced by his desperate façade._

" _Sir, I…"_

 _Before her predetermined words could ever escape her lips, he shot forward, immediately planting a desperate kiss on her rosy mouth, his hands moving to grasp the damp material of the dress that hung on her hips. Molly let out a soft cry before running her hands along his stubble and crashing her lips to his._

 _The two kissed under the pouring rain, their lips moving frantically. Sherlock ran his hands to her front, ripping the laces from her bodice, causing the dress to fall to her hips. Molly let out a surprised cry and quickly pushed away the passionate man._

" _We mustn't… We're supposed to fight! I hate you!"_

 _Sherlock just laughed and kissed her again, before dropping his lips to her neck. He let his lips travel to her collarbone, leaving kisses along the way._

" _You don't hate me, love."_

" _You… you ruined, perhaps forever, the happiness of my most beloved sister!"_

 _Sherlock laughed again and continued to kiss down her body, his lips finding her soft breasts. His tongue traced one of her exposed nipples, both erect from the cold of the rainy British evening and his caresses. He gave the nub a taste before looking back at Molly._

" _Oh, silly Molly. You are not Elizabeth. You have no sister. We have no script to follow."_

 _Molly shook her head, left out a throaty cry as her other nipple was enveloped in Sherlock's warm mouth. As he sucked on the nub, his eyes trained on the woman in front of him, he began to work on the buttons of his own top coat._

" _No… You… I still have reasons to hate you! Your arrogance and conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others—"_

 _Sherlock gave her another harsh kiss and dropped his breeches, fiddling with his under garments to free his hard length. He pulled her trembling bottom lip into his mouth and conquered her tongue, his hands meanwhile busy shoving the skirt of her dress up. He pulled his mouth away and smirked at her._

" _Oh, no, love. You don't get to take her words for your yourself. Besides, we have things all backwards. Shouldn't you be confessing to me?"_

 _Molly shivered in the cold, her practically naked body exposed in the rain. However, that didn't stop her from slapping Sherlock across the face. He cursed and grabbed his cheek, quickly directing a glare at the woman._

" _Just shut up and fuck me. Assuming I'm not still 'barely tolerable'," she hissed out._

 _Sherlock smirked and hauled her into his arms, quickly pressing her against the stone wall of the overlook, his hard cock just teasing her entrance._

" _Don't put his words in my mouth. I said that your lips and breasts were small." With that, he captured her lips in another harsh kiss and pummeled into her petite body._

 _Molly cried out and grabbed onto his curly locks, her exposed breasts pressing against the opened cloth of his now soaking wet top. The edges of his top coat brushed against her, a stiff wool that would surely leave marks, but she was in too much pleasure to care._

 _Sherlock started to fuck her faster, his hands locked on her hips, and his lips nipping all over her face and neck._

" _Now you'll have to marry me," he gritted out, "for virtue determines a woman's worth in this era."_

 _Molly gasped and pulled his hair harder, desperate moans continuing to escape her lips. She let out another cry and followed with, "What if I don't want to marry you? What if I rather marry another?"_

 _He captured her lips again and refused to slow down his unrelenting pace._

" _Then you'd simply be lying to yourself."_

 _With those final words, Molly let out a scream, her body shaking in the throes of passion, her entire form throbbing in the most sensational feeling to ever take over her, her vision going white—_

Molly shot up in her bed, her body covered in sweat and her knickers equally as damp. She grabbed her head and looked around her room, before gazing back down at her bed to find Toby asleep on top of her copy of _Pride and Prejudice_. She let out a swallow and grabbed the book, quickly tucking it back in her nightstand.

She sighed and laid back, wondering how she let Sherlock corrupt even her most favorite literature. She had told herself that she was moving on. She would be free of her romantic interests in him.

Of course, now she was having regency dreams of being deflowered by an ever-snarky Sherlock, who was equally parts Mr. Darcy as he was himself. He even had the audacity to ruin her favorite scene from the novel. The prat couldn't even stick to script!

She shut her eyes, quickly racking her brain for solutions to the Sherlock problem. He was a problem. This was a problem.

But it didn't matter. Her memories of the two in the throes of passion, his delicious voice and snark and soft lips attacking her body and soul filled her brain.

She had only one solution to her current problem.

And so, she gave in, slipping her shaking hand into her knickers.

She would forget about Sherlock.

But not tonight.


	8. An Evening of Wonders

" _There are very few who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement"_

Xxx

 _You lost the game._

Mycroft's words haunted Sherlock's every breath, regardless how many times he attempted to delete their conversation. No matter what he did, the harsh statement continued to penetrate his brain, invading his every thought like a bloody parasite.

What did Mycroft really know anyways? Sure, he practically was the British government, but he was certainly in no position to discuss feelings and friendship. His closest relationship was his mobile. As frequently as he discussed sentiment, he knew nothing about it, since he avoided it like the plague. Hence his conditioning of Sherlock early on.

All of this still didn't explain why Sherlock was standing in front of a trendy, new Indian restaurant in Soho, approximately two blocks from George's flat. He looked into George's new address for the sake of Molly's safety, and determining their next date spot wasn't difficult after deducing their shared availability, food preferences, the forecasted rain, and George's painful shin splints.

Thus, he knew he would find the couple inside, seated for their 7pm reservation. He even called ahead.

And then changed the reservation to three.

Sherlock ruffled his curly locks before strutting into the restaurant, his Belstaff billowing in the chilly London breeze, the light rain drops misting across his determined form. He made his way towards the back of the restaurant and spotted the couple. George laughed at something Molly said before filling her wine glass with the red liquid.

Sherlock scoffed. Molly preferred white.

Anyhow, he continued his movements, before quickly dropping into the booth, whipping his jacket off in the process. Molly, who was in the middle of discussing her day with George, stopped at the sight of Sherlock. Her mouth dropped open.

"Sherlock?" she practically squeaked out, "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock shrugged and grabbed the menu from George's hands, quickly scanning his eyes over the overpriced options.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm hungry."

Molly blinked and cleared her throat, shuffling in her seat. "Sherlock. We're on a date."

"Obviously," was all he offered before shutting the menu. He looked between her and George.

 _No lipstick. Sale blouse, loose trousers. She's comfortable with him._

Molly took a gulp of her wine and cursed. "You can't just plop yourself down here and interrupt our date."

Sherlock shrugged and turned his attention towards George.

"Hello, George. Did you happen to pay off your parking ticket from your trip to Manchester in 2014?"

George blinked and scratched his neck. "Uh… I didn't know I had one."

"You do. Stopped in a no parking zone in front of a Tesco. I reckon you should pay that."

"Right… Thanks."

Molly glared at Sherlock. "Sherlock. I think you should go."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled out his mobile, quickly typing away. "Now, now, Molly. Settle down. I just want a quick bite."

"Sherlock, this is not—"

George put his hand on hers, giving her a soft smile. "Hey, let him stay. We'll have a nice dinner, the three of us, and then I'll bring you out for breakfast on Saturday," he offered with a small, teasing grin.

At his words, Molly flushed and sipped her wine, seemingly satisfied. Sherlock watched the interaction, his eyes narrowing and shifting between the other two people at the table. He shoved his mobile back into his pocket, suddenly feeling rather sick.

"So. George. How have you managed to go thirty-seven years without a wife? Do you have some debilitating illness we should know about? I hear super gonorrhea has made its way here."

Molly practically spit out her wine, but George just smiled softly at the man from his spot. He let out a soft chuckle and shook his head, giving Molly's hand another squeeze. Sherlock immediately settled his focus on their intertwined limps.

"I assure you, there's no super gonorrhea to worry about. But to answer your question, I just haven't settled down because I hadn't found the right one," George replied, his eyes locked on Molly's blushing form.

"However, I'm hoping to change that, should things go well," he added with an easy smile.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and continued to shift his gaze between the couple, who seemed contently communicating solely with smiles and soft hand caresses. Sherlock nearly growled and grabbed Molly's wine glass, taking a hefty gulp for himself.

"Right. Wonderful. Any secret children we should know about?"

"None that I know of," George responded, holding back laughter.

"Your aunt was involved in a drug cartel. Did you participate? Any past use? Illegal dealings? Warrants for your arrest in other countries?"

George laughed again. "My Aunt was right. You sure are a funny bloke. While she was off in the States with her ex-husband, I was a little tyke over in Bristol. And no drug use. What an awful habit."

"You attended—"

Molly glared at Sherlock. "You are not going to interrogate my boyfriend over dinner. What are you getting at Sherlock?"

George laughed and brought her hand to his lips, earning a scowl from Sherlock. "It's alright, Molly. I'm happy to answer any of his questions. I reckon he's just doing some detective work," he added with a wink.

Sherlock took another sip from the wine, his leg twitching nervously under the table. "You left Liverpool because? Most people don't arbitrarily decide to find a new job in a new city."

"Well, the Liverpool office didn't have room to promote me. So, if I wanted the promotion, I had to move to London. I enjoyed my visits to the city so… Seemed like an interesting move to make and the right time."

Sherlock glared at the man, irritated by his logical answers and his lack of drama. He finished Molly's wine and quickly refilled the glass.

"I disagree. I reckon you had just broken up with a longtime girlfriend, most certainly younger than you," he paused and looked George over once more, "my guess if she didn't want to settle down and have children while you did. Then, you actively sought out a change in scenery."

George cleared his throat and sipped his wine, nodding slowly. "Yes. That would be right."

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. He looked over to Molly, expecting to see her upset or confused, but instead found her smiling softly at George. He practically broke the glass in his hands.

"George told me all about his ex, Rebecca. I told him about Tom. It was nice swapping stories," Molly added with a laugh.

"Certainly. But, at least Tom didn't toss out all your clothes when you dumped him," George joked.

"How you lasted six months with that woman is beyond me! She sounded mad!"

"Oh, she most certainly was. But I was lonely. So, I settled. I won't need to do that anymore," George whispered softly, again rubbing Molly's hand with his thumb.

Sherlock watched the couple continue to chat, laughing and exchanging stories of the week, ranging from the cadaver that had a tattoo of Shrek on their shoulder, to George discovering money laundering from the company's CFO.

The detective sat in silence, eating only naan, afraid anything else would come up if he opened his mouth. He took a gulp of wine, his eyes continuing to shift between the couple, trying to figure out what the hell he had been thinking when he showed up here.

 _Most of all, you're losing._

Xxx

Sherlock trailed behind the couple, ignoring the irritating rain drops hitting his curly hair and jacket. Molly and George walked ahead of him, hand and hand, discussing what to see at the cinema over the weekend.

As they neared Molly's building, Sherlock sped up, meeting their pace.

"Your presence will no longer be needed George. I have some work to do with Molly."

Molly looked over at Sherlock with a glare. "Work? I don't recall—"

George smiled and shook his head. "It's fine, Molly. I know how much you help him with his cases. Don't worry about me."

Molly frowned slightly, looking between the two men. George stood with soft eyes and a genuine smile, Sherlock with a blank look on his face.

"Perfect. Goodnight," the detective replied, his responses forever short and sweet.

With that, Sherlock marched up the stairs towards her flat, leaving the couple in the entryway to the building. He stopped after the first flight of stairs, quickly peering down at the couple, who currently were sharing a kiss. He scowled and continued to move up to Molly's floor.

Molly pulled away and grinned at her boyfriend, her hands moving to play with his collar. However, her smile quickly turned into a frown. "I'm sorry. Sherlock can be so—"

George shook his head and smiled softly. "Don't worry about it. I've heard loads about him from you, my aunt, and even your friend John. It's quite alright. Help him with his case and I'll see you on Thursday."

Molly nodded and gave him another soft kiss. "Thank you. You're amazing."

"No, Molly Hooper, that would be you."

Upstairs, Sherlock had hung up his jacket, and now sat on the sofa, mindlessly petting Toby, who seemed content on his lap. He couldn't exactly explain why, but he felt rather ill. His stomach felt like it at any moment would empty itself, and he couldn't stop jerking his legs.

His attention was drawn from the lazy cat to the front door when Molly hurried inside, quickly discarding her shoes and jacket. When her gaze met Sherlock's, he was surprised to see the anger in her eyes.

"What the fuck was that about?" She asked, her cheeks already red from anger, not the wind from their walk home.

Sherlock resumed his petting and avoided her gaze. "I told you. I was hungry."

"Don't treat me like I'm stupid Sherlock! You showed up uninvited, barely touched your food, and interrogated my boyfriend."

"I just wanted to make sure he was trustworthy. People rarely are these days."

"No! Friends don't just barge in on dates and ask if someone has bloody gonorrhea!"

Sherlock shrugged and finally met her gaze, surprised to see her eyes welling up in tears. He gulped, suddenly wondering if he had made a grave mistake.

"You have terrible taste in men. I just wanted to confirm that he was not planning on destroying the state," He replied, holding his head up high.

"That isn't your bloody job! You are not my father or my fucking keeper, Sherlock!" She practically yelled, a single tear falling down her cheek.

Sherlock stood up, his eyes still locked on Molly. "I really don't see the problem. I needed to make sure he was safe. You admitted it yourself. You tend to be attracted to sociopaths."

"Like yourself?" She shot out bitterly, her hands wrapping around her petite form.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, taking a few steps toward Molly. "Oh? Yes, last time I checked, you were rather attracted to me. So, I admit it. I'm quite confused how you ended up in a relationship with such a bloody idiot."

Molly shook her head, more tears pouring down her face. "An idiot? What makes him a fucking idiot? His incredible work with numbers, or his employment with one of the biggest companies in the world, or his ability to recreate recipes after tasting a dish one time?"

Sherlock scoffed. "He's an idiot for a variety of reasons, but mainly because he's nothing like me."

Molly let out a cold, shrill laugh. "What makes him so great is that he is _nothing_ like you!"

Sherlock stopped his movements and stared at Molly, his blue eyes turning to ice as he gazed into her brown orbs. His entire body tensed before continuing to move towards her.

"Is that so?" he practically hissed out, his eyes as angry as her own.

"Yes!" Molly shot back, the hatred evident in her voice.

Sherlock moved against her, his body quickly approaching hers, his demanding height gazing down at her small form. He narrowed his eyes and continued to look into her chocolate gaze, their bodies only centimeters apart.

"Is that why you're so bored? Why you're already back to wearing work trousers to your dates? Why you haven't stopped using your vibrator even after sleeping with him?" He spat out, no longer caring what words hurt her.

He barely inhaled again before Molly's hand met his cheek in an angry slap. He grabbed her wrist and pinned her into the wall, quickly capturing her lips with his own.

His kiss was inexperienced yet demanding, and his hands were quick to move up and cup her damp cheeks. He didn't let Molly awaken from her own shock and respond before jerking himself away from her, momentarily stunned by his own actions. He swallowed and took a step back, shaking his head.

"I only do the things I do because I care about you Molly. I just want to protect you," He managed to force out, before grabbing his jacket and disappearing out the door.

Molly stood against the wall, stunned. She didn't flinch as the door slammed shut. Instead, she tentatively brought her hand to her lips and touched them, wondering if Sherlock had really kissed or if she had imagined the entire thing.

She shook her head and promised herself she'd forget the entire evening and focus on her upcoming dates with George. George was her boyfriend. Sherlock, no matter how unpredictable, was her friend, and nothing more. If she could even consider a man who continuously insulted and hurt her a friend.

 _Besides, I don't need Darcy when I have Mr. Collins._

She dropped onto her bed and shook her head, wiping fresh tears from her eyes.

 _As if anyone believed that._


	9. Every Savage Can Dance

**NOTE:**

Hello! Happy to see you still reading! I just wanted to remind everyone that Sherlock is still Sherlock. He's rash, resorts to hurting others when he doesn't get what he wants (mostly subconsciously), manipulative (again subconsciously) and overall lacks some of the social niceties that you and I do. While that has improved over the seasons, he is not perfect. So, as you read, and he occasionally (or pretty much always) is an asshole, I urge you to remember that Sherlock is not the protagonist in a romance novel. He is Sherlock Holmes, and he's a bit not okay. He is still a good person and will always redeem himself. Additionally, some of you have mentioned that you're starting to root for George. GOOD. That's the point. Because that's what Molly is beginning to go through.

And friendly reminder: Sherlock is taking notes from Mr. Darcy. He wasn't exactly the nicest guy when he confesses to Elizabeth the first time, now was he? Keep that in mind in the upcoming few chapters. Like Darcy, Sherlock will have his redemption.

With this said, please read and enjoy! Hopefully this chapter allows you to see what the characters are thinking.

 _Xxx_

" _Vanity, not love, has been my folly."_

Xxx

A few days later, Molly sipped a deliciously spicy chai latte, seated during her lunch hour at a quiet little café a few blocks from St. Bart's. She rarely left the hospital during the workday, but George was insistent on her getting out occasionally. So, her wonderful boyfriend took the tube across town to meet her, and sat across from her in a dashing suit, and a lovely purple button down.

 _It's a tad lighter than Sherlock's._

She shook her head.

 _You are not to think about that irritating, manipulative prat. Not now and not ever again._

Molly bit into her chicken sandwich and smiled at George, laughing as he dabbed away some salad dressing from the edge of his mouth. As usual, he gave her a dashing grin.

"So, we discussed getting away for the weekend, yeah? Well, I decided to surprise you," George began, pausing to take a few bites of his salad.

Molly couldn't help but beam from across the table. "We're going somewhere for the weekend?" She practically squealed.

 _Where will we go? Scotland? Ireland? To the continent?_

She gasped.

 _The city of love? Will we take a stroll along the streets of Paris? Or perhaps to Rome, and feast on pasta and history?_

"Yes! We have an 8am train to Liverpool on Saturday morning. We're gonna catch a match too. I invited your mate John," George smiled and continued eating.

Molly couldn't help but frown, but managed to disguise her disappointment by taking a sip of her latte. She cleared her throat and gave George a smile.

"Oh… That sounds lovely!"

"We'll catch a match, have a drink or two with my mates, maybe go for a jog. You know, do some real fun stuff."

Molly just nodded and took another bite of her sandwich. "That sounds perfect. Thank you for putting everything together."

"Of course! I wanted to plan something that I knew we'd both love." He added with a charming grin.

Molly gave him a soft smile and nodded. "You're so sweet."

"Hey, don't mention it!"

The couple continued to eat, discussing George's huge project that was due the following evening, and Molly's autopsy on a woman who had eight toes on one foot.

All the while, she couldn't think past their upcoming weekend.

 _Liverpool and a football match? This is almost as bad as a trip to Hyde Park and a bottle of Scotch._

As she peered out the window, she wondered for the millionth time if all blokes were morons, or if her expectations were just too high.

Xxx

Across town, John strolled into 221b Baker Street, a bag of takeaway in his hands, in a pleasant mood from the lovely weather and a much-needed day off. He dropped the bag on the table and shrugged out of his jacket, not paying any notice to Sherlock.

"I dropped Rosie off with Mrs. Hudson. She's teething and in constant pain. I feel so bad for her but there's only so much I can do. Not to mention, she won't shut up," John announced, quickly digging into the bag to pull out two Styrofoam containers. "She hates the bloody toys too. Tried rubbing her gums. Nothing works and she won't stop wailing."

John yawned and sat down, shoving a fresh chip into his mouth. Finally realizing that Sherlock had yet to respond to his complaining, he looked across the sitting room to find the detective sprawled across the sofa, holding his violin to his chest with his eyes shut.

"Uh… Sherlock… Are you sleeping?"

"Of course not. I just had nothing to add to your long-winded story about a growing pain that all infants experience."

"Right. Is there a reason you're hugging your violin like that?"

Sherlock finally opened his eyes, surprised by his own position. He cleared his throat and set his violin back in its rightful place, before running his hands through his messy curls.

From across the room, John watched the behavior of his friend, doing a bit of his own deducing.

 _Messy hair, unshaven, pyjamas on._

"My god Sherlock, you're not high, are you?"

Sherlock scoffed and rose to his feet, moving towards his mate. He dropped in the seat beside him and opened one of the containers, shoving a chip in his mouth.

"No. If I were high, I'd be in a better mood."

John let out a relieved breath and shook his head. "Right. What's crawled up your arse then? What's with the getup?"

Sherlock ignored his question and cut into his fish fillet, enjoying his first taste of food in four days, aside from Mrs. Hudson's twice daily tea and biscuit delivery. He never counted that.

John sighed and ate another chip, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. "Is there a reason you look so… unkempt?"

"Trying a new style."

John just blinked. "Sherlock. I haven't heard from you in five days."

"I was busy."

"With what?"

Sherlock growled and slammed his hands on the table. "Does it matter with what? Since when has my life been any of your business?"

John frowned and crossed his arms. "We're mates, Sherlock. Sorry I care enough to show some concern. It hasn't exactly been an easy few months for me. I'm just trying to do what others did for me."

At his friend's words, Sherlock frowned and shifted his gaze to the ground. He sighed and again ran his hands through his unwashed hair. "Right. I'm… sorry."

John just nodded and continued to eat, satisfied with the very Sherlock apology. He continued to watch the detective, intrigued by the state of disarray and seemingly distracted nature of his friend.

"But really, Sherlock, what's going on? You're not dressed in the middle of the afternoon. You clearly haven't shaved or showered in days. Mrs. Hudson said she doesn't think you've left the flat in four days."

Sherlock cleared his throat and ate another chip. John sighed.

"This is what friends are for. We talk through problems. And you've been barking mad these past few months. I know why but I reckon you don't."

That got Sherlock's attention. He shifted his gaze from the ground over to John. "Is that so? Indulge me."

John took a deep breath, racking his brain for the perfect words to break the likely devastating news to Sherlock. As John contemplated his next move, Sherlock scoffed and ate another chip.

"Exactly. Leave the observational skills to me, John."

"Alright, you git. You have feelings for Molly. Romantic feelings." John clarified before sipping his drink.

Sherlock blinked as the words hit his brain. He merely scoffed in response and crossed his arms. "What a ridiculous statement. I'm the detective. You're a sleep-deprived father of a one-year-old. I'm the only one who should be making deductions about behavior."

John practically snorted. "Oh, come off it Sherlock! You're in such a shit mood because you're jealous of her relationship with George. And per usual, when you're in a piss mood, you act like more of a dick than you normally are."

Sherlock growled and got up, quickly moving towards the window. He glanced out the freshly cleaned glass (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson), before looking back at John. He scowled again and resumed his pretend fascination with the bustle of Baker Street.

"We can talk about it," John offered softly, unsure of how to treat the detective in his current state.

"There's nothing to talk about," Sherlock corrected, his voice raspy. He turned back to John and resumed his position on the sofa.

John sighed and gave Sherlock a disappointed look. "There's nothing wrong with how you're feeling. But I promise you, if you bury this, deny its existence, you're going to hate yourself forever. Because that George bloke? He's genuine. And I can see that relationship blossoming into something more," he paused to watch Sherlock drop his head to his hands before continuing, "Becoming something permanent."

At that final word, Sherlock looked back at John, his impenetrable mask for once fading to show his concern, his confusion, but most of all, his fear. It disappeared after a moment, once again concealed by Sherlock's perfected look of indifference.

Sherlock cleared his throat and took a deep breath, wondering if speaking to John about whatever he was feeling was confirming it. Surely this was all some big misunderstanding. It had to be.

"I don't know what I'm feeling," he answered honestly.

From across the room, John's eyes lit up, shocked by Sherlock actually admitting that something unordinary was going on. He cleared his throat and gave his friend a sad smile.

"Well, I can tell you what I've observed. And while I may be no Sherlock Holmes, I sure know a lot more about human feelings and relationships than you do."

John paused, expecting Sherlock to issue some snarky retort, but instead, the detective remained staring ahead, his eyes glassy, his head clearly somewhere else. Once John opened his mouth to speak again, Sherlock focused his attention on the other man.

"You actually care about what Molly thinks about you. You open up to her more than anyone else. You've always investigated her dates and made her relationships incredibly difficult, but your research into George has been borderline obsessive. You've also been lashing out ever since she started seeing him, so much as throwing a hissy fit and hiding in Rosie's nursery when the two were flirting at Rosie's party."

Sherlock swallowed and looked down at his hands. "I don't know what I'm feeling," he repeated.

John sighed. "Right. And that's all well and good, Sherlock. But clearly, you're feeling something past the friendly care for her. You'd have to be a blind fool not to notice that."

Sherlock cursed and shook his head. "I did something stupid, John. Very stupid. Like something an average idiot would do. Think of your own behavior."

John rolled his eyes, deciding to ignore the jab. "I'm listening."

"I may or may not have infiltrated Molly's most recent date with George, and then prevented him from going home with her. Then, I may or may not have kissed her."

John blinked and opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it. His mouth moved open and closed a few more times before his brain finally processed Sherlock's words.

"Wait… Let me get this straight… You, Sherlock Holmes, kissed Molly?"

Sherlock sighed and crossed his arms. "Precisely. That's exactly what I said, John."

"Kiss? You know what a kiss is, right?"

Sherlock scowled. "Of course I know what a bloody kiss is."

"Right. So. Lips on lips. Just to confirm, you willingly, for solely personal reasons and not for any sort of case advancement, pressed your lips to Molly's?"

Sherlock gave him a nasty glare. John shook his head, seemingly coming to.

"Sorry. I just… it's so hard to wrap my head around. You kissing someone? I never thought I'd see the day."

John just laughed softly, imagining the scene in his head. He shook off the thoughts and looked to Sherlock, surprised by the lost look on his friend's face. He sighed.

"Alright. So, you kissed her. After ruining her date. And while she has a boyfriend. How did she respond?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I… I don't know. Once the kiss ended, I left immediately."

John groaned. "You two haven't talked about it?"

"Of course not. Why would I willingly enter a conversation about something that makes me uncomfortable?"

"Because, you stupid git! Molly probably has no idea that you have feelings for her. What if she is only dating George to get over you? Don't you realize that you could be with her?

Sherlock tensed and looked back out the window. "I don't have feelings for her. Again, I don't know what exactly I'm feeling."

John threw his hands up in exasperation. "Of course you have feelings for her! You kissed her!"

Sherlock scowled and shook his head. "Lapse of judgement… Muscles twitching… There's always an explanation for the unexplainable."

Finished with dealing with the in-denial detective, John rose to his feet and headed towards the door. "Right, well, when you finally decide to admit your feelings and want to figure out how to admit your love, I'll be here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, because before Mary you were certainly the ladies man. You couldn't hold a girlfriend to save your life."

John glared at him. "Right. Also, it might serve you to know that I'm heading to Liverpool this weekend. Mrs. Hudson will have Rosie. I'm catching a match with George, and then he's taking me and Molly to see the city."

Sherlock's eyes darted back to John, narrowing in disgust. He rose to his feet, a new feeling of bile rising in his stomach.

"Get out."

John couldn't help but laugh. "Exactly my point! You're livid that I'm going off with them. Just admit what's going on Sherlock."

Sherlock picked up a stack of mail from the table and tossed it at the wall, before reaching for a discarded tea tray and doing the same. John watched with wide eyes.

"I said get out! You're a bloody traitor!"

"Oh? Because you wouldn't fucking care if I were spending the weekend with Lestrade and his new girlfriend. Somehow, I'm betraying you by hanging with Molly and George. What's different?"

John opened the door and shook his head, giving Sherlock one final, poignant look.

"That should be all the evidence you need."

John left, slamming the door shut, leaving Sherlock to wallow in his own thoughts.

Sherlock, in the meantime, began to grab whatever he could get his hands on, and slammed the various decorations, books, plates and loose items against the patterned wall.

 _Something permanent._


	10. Perfect Composure, Perfect Civility

" _But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them forever."_

Xxx

John sat in the corner of the dimly lit booth, taking another gulp from his pint, enjoying the endless Beatles songs playing from the speakers of the pub. He checked his mobile yet again, making sure that Mrs. Hudson had no updates on Rosie, before glancing over the menu, unsure of his pick for lunch.

Across from him, Molly and George sat huddled in the booth, sharing a menu. Molly glanced over at John and grinned.

"Don't worry about Rosie! She's in great hands. And she's such an easy baby to take care of," Molly announced, taking a sip from her own pint, "Half the time I got her I just flip on Peppa and call it a day!"

John chuckled and shut his menu. "She sure loves that blasted pig. But no. I wasn't worried about Rosie. I was…" He shook his head and stopped himself, unsure what can of worms he was at risk of opening.

He noticed the fall in Molly's features and took another generous sip of beer, wondering if she shared the same worries he had over Sherlock. As she opened her mouth to prompt John further, George shut the menu between the two of them and grinned.

"Well, I reckon we'll just have fish and chips." George turned his gaze towards John. "I know you're excited to get to Anfield. I arranged to tour the locker room and facilities before the match. Might even run into James Milner."

The name had John's mouth falling open. "Milner?" He squeaked out, "You'd get us to meet Milner?"

"Maybe even stand on the pitch," George added with a grin.

John let out a nervous laugh and took another gulp of beer, wondering how he had gotten so lucky. George went into his story of studying abroad in Germany and meeting Klopp at a sports club, all while Molly looked between the two men, tuning out the conversation.

She held her pint glass in both hands, her gaze shifting between John's completely entranced smile, and George's composed storytelling. As she fiddled with her jacket zipper, she wondered how she had ended up on a weekend getaway to Liverpool.

Not exactly the glorious green landscape of Scotland she envisioned when they discussed getting away for the weekend. But it was alright. She was getting the opportunity to meet some of George's friends and see his old stomping grounds, all the while bringing John along for the boys' precious football match. Not to mention, she was away from London where she could forget whatever transpired during her most recent row with Sherlock.

 _He kissed me._

She took a deep breath and another sip of her beer.

 _Stop thinking about it. It doesn't matter._

She looked back over at John, fixated on how…bizarre this was. Here she was, sitting at a pub in the center of Liverpool, listening to her boyfriend and John discuss football. In fact, she frequently dreamed of this scenario in the past. Maybe not in a pub. Maybe not in Liverpool. But always John sitting across from her, his gentle smile etching her on, as she sat side by side with the man she loved.

 _That's because Bingley always brought out the best in Darcy._

Her gaze shifted over to George, who now was using his mobile to show photos of his trips to football stadiums across the world to John.

 _But Darcy isn't here. You made your decision._

Molly shook her thoughts away and leaned into George, admiring his photo of Madrid, laughing along with the two men.

Xxx

Back in London, Mrs. Hudson marched up the stairs towards unit 221b, Rosie strapped to her chest, a bag of toys strapped to her back, and a tray filled with fresh tea and biscuits in her hands. She was always delighted to watch the child, although after learning about John's plans, she found herself in a moral dilemma.

Here she was, torn between watching her lovely nephew enjoy the blossoming of love, and her dearest Sherlock falling into a pit of nothingness. She wanted the best for each of the boys, but part of her wondered if Sherlock would be able to bounce back from this as he did with everything else, especially so soon after Mary's death.

After Mary's loss, she had received an ominous ring from an unknown number, which upon answering turned out to be the equally rude and arrogant Mycroft Holmes, instructing her to watch out for Sherlock. To follow his movements, to fill his fridge, to clean his home, and to be there if the detective ever needed her.

She understood Mycroft reaching out. Sherlock had been descending towards death, his soul but a piece of what it once was. For that reason, she was unsurprised when she got another ring earlier in the week.

 _A glance at her mobile confirmed her suspicions. Why did the Holmes boys make everything so bloody difficult? She brought the device to her ear and rubbed her other temple, preparing herself for what would likely be a painful conversation._

" _Ah, Martha. I hope you're having a pleasant week," the baritone voice spilled out from the other line, shrouded in haughtiness._

 _Mrs. Hudson practically fumed, quickly moving to sit at her kitchen table. "Out with it Mycroft. What do you want with me now? Sherlock's not using."_

" _I know he isn't. That's not why I'm calling you."_

" _Really now? So this doesn't have to do with Sherlock?"_

 _The man on the other line just laughed, his calm chuckle putting Mrs. Hudson's nerves on edge. "Of course it has to do with Sherlock. Doesn't everything?"_

" _Then what about him?"_

" _It has come to my attention that your nephew has entered a relationship with Dr. Molly Hooper, Sherlock's companion at St. Bart's."_

" _Well, sure, I believe so! I went furniture shopping with George and Molly. They make a lovely pairing. He is—"_

 _Mycroft cut her off, continuing his verbose babbling. "It has also come to my attention to my baby brother has developed feelings for Dr. Hooper."_

 _Mrs. Hudson practically gasped. "Sherlock? Being interested in Molly? Oh, don't be silly Mycroft!"_

" _Oh, I assure you that I am not being 'silly'. We have a situation on our hands."_

 _That had Mrs. Hudson laughing. "A situation? My God, Mycroft. You act as if the state is in danger if Sherlock gets a tad jealous."_

 _Silence followed, before Mycroft added softly, "This is Sherlock we're talking about."_

 _Mrs. Hudson sighed and continued to rub her temple. "Is there a reason you rang?"_

" _I need you to watch out for him. Take care of him. Treat him like a loose cannon. He is a ticking time bomb."_

" _That's not a very nice way to refer to your brother, Mycroft."_

" _Perhaps. But you know how Sherlock is. I am preparing for the worst."_

" _And the worst would be?"_

" _Sherlock having his heart broken. We have no precedent. I'm… concerned about his response."_

 _Mrs. Hudson frowned and tapped her fingers against her kitchen counter, thinking about her lovely Sherlock upstairs. The same Sherlock who continuously protected her, and treated her with (mostly) kindness._

" _Alright Mycroft. For Sherlock. I'll be there for him."_

" _Lovely. He will likely be in a piss mood this weekend. Dr. Watson is joining Dr. Hooper and your nephew in Liverpool. I'm aware you will have Rosamund Watson. Keep him company."_

 _With that, Mycroft ended the call, before Mrs. Hudson could even question his knowledge of John's or her own weekend plans._

Mrs. Hudson paused in front of the door and glanced down at Rosie, who happily attempted to chew on the hand of a plastic doll that she grasped in her chubby fist. She sighed.

"Very well. Help me cheer him up, will you?" She asked the blonde child.

Rosie squealed and blew a bubble of spit before continuing her chewing. Mrs. Hudson laughed and entered the flat, looking around to find the sitting room and kitchen empty. She set the tray and baby bag down before bringing her hands to her hips.

"Now, where is he? Sherlock!" She bellowed, wondering if the detective had slipped out without her knowledge.

Before she could give it any more thought, the curly-haired man stumbled in, wearing clothes that he had clearly slept in from the previous day. He took one look at Mrs. Hudson, then the child, before scowling and collapsing onto the sofa.

"Leave the tea and biscuits. Then you may go."

Mrs. Hudson scoffed and unbuckled Rosie from her chest, setting the baby on the ground. Rosie sat up and began to play with the copper-haired doll in her hands. Sherlock glanced over at the child before stubbornly directing his attention elsewhere.

"Now, that is no way to treat a lady and a child! What are the magic words, Sherlock?"

The detective growled and sat up. "Thank you," he managed out, his eyes both annoyed yet sad.

Upon noticing his appearance, Mrs. Hudson sighed and dropped to John's usual chair. She looked at Rosie before back at Sherlock, her smile soft.

"Why don't you play with Rosie for a bit? I could run out, grab some lunch. Maybe make you a lemon drizzle cake?"

Sherlock crossed his arms and focused on the ceiling. "I'm not hungry," he spat out, before a loud stomach rumble filled the room.

Rosie squealed and clapped. Sherlock sighed.

"Very well," he mumbled, continuing to practice his disinterest.

Mrs. Hudson rose back to her feet and gave him a sad smile. "Have some fun with Rosie. She just ate. There are some extra nappies in the bag on the table. Now, if she starts crying, it's probably from her gums. She's—"

"Teething," Sherlock interrupted, before also rising to his feet.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and nodded. "Splendid. I'll be back shortly. Cheers!"

With that, the older woman disappeared, leaving Sherlock to stand over the small child, staring at the ground like a menacing villain in a Disney film. He crossed his arms and glared at the baby, who met his gaze with a squealing shriek and clapping hands.

"Don't look so happy," he spat out, his eyes locked on her blue orbs and rosy cheeks, "You're the child of a traitor."

Rosie squealed and crawled over to his bare feet, hitting the top of his foot with her doll. "Dada!" she declared happily, seemingly unimpacted by his previous statement.

"Figures you'd be loyal." Sherlock sighed and leaned down, quickly drawing the child into his arms. Rosie put her cheek against the wrinkled material of his purple top, her blue eyes sparkling in the lights of his sitting room. Her rosy face expanded in a contagious smile, forcing even Sherlock to break his icy exterior for a moment.

"Blasted. Of all the people to show up, it had to be you," he shook his head, but couldn't bear to frown at the baby, or tear his eyes away from her glowing presence.

Rosie let out a delighted squeal and pointed to the floral baby bag sitting on his table. Sherlock walked over and grabbed the bag, before dropping to the floor, setting Rosie between his legs. Rosie immediately rose to her chubby legs and dove into the bag, coming out with a stuffed dog. She grinned.

"Ock!" She squealed, hugging the plush animal to her tiny body. Sherlock swallowed, his eyes locked on her form.

"Are you saying my name?" He asked hesitantly.

"Ock!" She squealed again, holding up the dog and smiling knowingly at Sherlock.

Sherlock could feel his heart warming, and immediately pulled the child back into his arms. He pressed a kiss to her head and shut his eyes, promising himself that he wouldn't acknowledge the few tears that were escaping.

"I'm so sorry," he managed out, his grip steady on her tiny body, "so sorry for taking away the most important person in your life."

Rosie just wiggled out of his grip and gave the detective another bright smile. She placed her tiny, chubby hands on his cheeks, and gave him yet another earth-shattering grin.

"Ock!" She repeated, before shuffling back into the open baby bag.

Sherlock just watched the child, all his horrible feelings dissolving away at the sight of her cheerful presence and undeniable adorableness. He watched her struggle to keep her balance as she shuffled in the bag. A few moments passed before she dropped to her bottom, holding two new dolls. Specifically, a Kristoff and Prince Hans to join her Anna doll (although it wasn't as if Sherlock recognized the Disney characters).

She grinned knowingly at Sherlock and handed him the Kristoff doll, her chubby fists now wrapped around the legs of her Anna and Hans doll. She began to babble nonsense, having the dolls move up and down. Sherlock looked down at the doll in his own hands and then over to Rosie.

"No. Rosie, if you expect me to play, we must have a storyline to follow. Otherwise, this just gets boring."

Rosie squealed and tried to put the head of the Hans doll in her mouth. Sherlock sighed and pushed the toy back to the ground, his eyes shifting to the wet doll.

"Well, he certainly looks like a smarmy git," he announced, his eyes locked on the doll. He looked back at the blonde Kristoff doll in his hands, and then back at the Anna doll that Rosie was currently covering in saliva.

"Very well. You will play Molly. I will play myself. Together, we will antagonize George. Understood?"

Rosie squealed and blew a spit bubble. Sherlock took that as agreement.

Xxx

After a long, wet match, the trio headed over to the home of one of George's friends. John was wrapped in a new red and white scarf, a glowing smile on his face. George was equally as pleased with his afternoon, and only grew happier the minute he entered the familiar friend's home, immediately being greeted by five of his best mates.

Brief introductions were given, followed by standard small talk, before George became engrossed with describing his new life in London to his friends. Molly sat to the side, sipping a cup of tea, smiling softly as she watched her boyfriend. John sat beside her, his scarf still on, even after all their outwear had been discarded.

"Thanks for letting me tag along. I hope I didn't ruin your romantic weekend," he laughed, gazing back down at his scarf with a grin.

Molly shook her head and gave him a weak smile. "Oh, no worries. When George brought up a weekend trip I was hoping we'd go somewhere new. Romantic even. I wasn't expecting Liverpool," she added quietly.

John just nodded, his eyes shuffling between Molly and the group of excited men that were catching up around the telly, engrossed in a different football match.

"Things going well?"

"Oh. Of course. We get along so well."

The pair sat in silence, both avoiding the elephant in the room. Molly continued to watch George chat with his mates, and John continued to admire his souvenir. Finally, he redirected his gaze to Molly.

"I know he kissed you," was all John said, his voice quiet.

At the sentence, Molly tensed, immediately drawing her gaze to her lap. She began to play with the hem of her top.

"I rather not discuss this."

"You and him both. I reckon you two have a lot to talk about."

Molly shook her head, her eyes going back to George across the room. "There is nothing to talk about. This is Sherlock. It's not like he fancies me or anything. This is his way of manipulating me."

John couldn't help but frown. While he planned on defending his mate, even after their row, he couldn't fault Molly's thought process. Especially considering Sherlock's normal behavior. He sighed before responding.

"What if he does fancy you?"

Molly whipped her head towards John. "Don't say that," she croaked out.

"I just mean… Sherlock has been rather off lately. Anything is possible."

Molly swallowed and shook her head. "No. It doesn't matter. I promised myself that I would get over him. I'm not Elizabeth Bennet."

John gave her a look of confusion. "Elizabeth Bennet?"

Molly frowned and looked away. "It doesn't matter. None of this matters. Sherlock is my friend and nothing more. He will only ever be my friend. He has gone many years making that explicitly clear."

"Stranger things have happened," John mumbled, suddenly feeling sorry for his friend.

Molly shut her eyes and squeezed her hands on her thighs.

 _I'm aware. He kissed me._

Xxx

"I deal with maths for a living! I enjoy overcompensating for my below-average sized appendage by spending lots of money!" Sherlock waved the Hans doll in front of Rosie before looking over to the other hand.

"I'm the best detective in the world. I put criminals in jail," he announced, in a deeper voice.

Rosie made a few babbling noises and waved her Anna doll, grinning at Sherlock in the process.

"Why yes Molly," he announced, bringing his Kristoff doll towards Rosie, "I am extremely handsome. You are very lucky to have me in your life."

Rosie squealed again and hit her doll to Sherlock's, causing their faces to press together. Sherlock swallowed, enamored with the art imitating life.

Mrs. Hudson entered the flat with arms full of groceries. She took one glance at Sherlock and Rosie on the ground and grinned.

"Oh, how lovely! You're planning dolls with her! Oh, I should take a photo!"

"Mrs. Hudson. Please. These are not dolls. We are not playing. We are performing an intricately crafted representation of my life at the present. This is art."

Mrs. Hudson just grinned. "Yes, dear. Now, would you prefer lemon drizzle or Victoria sponge?"

Sherlock pouted and crossed his arms. He dwelled on the question for a moment.

"May I have both?"

"No."

"Lemon drizzle it is."

Rosie squealed in agreement and threw up her hands.

Sherlock considered doing the same.

NOTE:

Thanks for reading! First, I apologize if any of my mentions of the sport were off-while I am very knowledgeable about American sports, I cannot say the same for British football culture. In addition, Rosie has dolls from the film "Frozen", although arguably (or at least at first glance), Sherlock is probably much more of a Hans and George is much more of a Kristoff. But again, that's not skin deep ; )

I'm so happy everyone has enjoyed this story! I started thinking it would be about 10 chapters long, but if I had to guess, we're looking at another 8 to 10 chapters to go from here. Thanks for reading and if I get some awesome feedback, I may be inclined to post another chapter quite soon. Thanks again! :)


	11. Prepossession and Ignorance

" _One word from you shall silence me forever."_

Xxx

Another two weeks passed before Sherlock finally decided to face Molly. Although, he certainly didn't want to. He had just finished reading a science journal on the effects of muscle dexterity on thumbs and absolutely needed the fingers.

Or at least that was the excuse he gave himself as he exited his cab and strolled into St. Bart's.

It had been an uncomfortable few weeks. He had spent hours within his mind palace, trying to figure out why he had behaved how he had. Why on earth was his bodily instinct to kiss her? He even resorted to outside research, looking into journals on the psychological implications of desires for intimacy, and dream analysis.

He had come to one conclusion for his actions.

But it was a silly one.

So, he rejected it and moved on, instead devoting his time to playing the violin, catching up on his medical journals, playing with Rosie (even if she was the child of a traitor), and waiting around for a case to finally fall into his lap.

As he made his way to the basement of St. Bart's, he thought about what words to exchange with Molly. Should he apologize? Make an excuse? Pretend it didn't happen?

Pushing through the double doors, he halted at the sight of Molly and George laughing over takeaway containers of cranberry scones and rashers.

The couple noticed his presence and their conversation came to an end. Molly looked away and quickly jumped up, making herself busy with some files. George just smiled and waved at the detective.

"Good morning, Sherlock. What brings you around?" George asked politely, before sipping his coffee.

Sherlock cleared his throat and began to fiddle with the gloves in his hands. "I could ask you the same."

"I just brought Molly some breakfast! She works too hard. She deserves to be treated."

Sherlock shifted his gaze back to their food, noting the rather full container on Molly's side.

 _Molly dislikes cranberries. She also doesn't eat pork after that silly childhood pet piglet she had._

He looked back at George. "Lovely. I just need a few body parts from Dr. Hooper."

George laughed. "Right! Molly mentioned your bizarre experiments. I'll just stick to numbers."

"As you should."

Sherlock looked over at Molly, who still conveniently was focused on a stack of files.

"Molly," he began softly, "I need six thumbs. If it would… not inconvenience you."

Molly tensed and paused her rummaging in the folders, but still avoided looking at Sherlock.

"And if it does inconvenience me?" she managed out.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down. "Then I'm… sorry. It would be inappropriate to ask."

"You do a lot of inappropriate things, Sherlock," Molly began, turning to face him, "Except normally you don't care if it upsets or negatively affects anyone else."

George busied himself with his mobile, attempting to avoid paying attention to their discussion. Sherlock met Molly's gaze and took a deep breath.

"I know. But after—"

"After Mary? I thought you changed too. I expected you to think before you acted. But I was wrong. I'm… disappointed."

Sherlock frowned, only for a moment, before quickly reverting to his practiced face of indifference. He maintained his gaze on Molly. "Right. I apologize for coming by then."

"I'm sorry too." Was all she offered, before returning to her seat across from George, and defiantly taking a bite of her scone.

As Sherlock stormed out of the lab, he couldn't help but clench his fists at the sight of her face contorting in disgust.

 _She hates cranberries._

Xxx

After his disastrous meeting with Molly, Sherlock was in quite the mood. He was always in a mood, but his current temperament was borderline destructive. So, per his past behavior, he did whatever he normally did when he fucked up.

He visited Mycroft to request that his elder brother fix it for him.

He usually avoided going to Mycroft's office, normally preferring being picked up by his brother and carted off to some destination, or having his brother show up at Baker Street. But today would be different. He needed…

Well, he didn't know what he needed. But Mycroft normally had answers, so his older brother would be a good start.

As he rounded the hallway towards his brother's office, he couldn't stop thinking about the morning. He hated when Molly was disappointed in him. He hated when she looked at him like he had failed. He hated when she felt betrayed by his actions—

Sherlock halted as he opened Mycroft's office door, his eyes widening at the sight of his older brother engaged in a passionate snog with Anthea, the silent brunette who typically did his busy work.

He dropped his gloves that he had been angrily squeezing in his fists, and managed to kick the door shut.

At the sound of the door slamming, the couple separated. Anthea blushed and cleared her throat, before mumbling a few apologizes and hurrying out of the office. Mycroft, however, simply adjusted his tie and watched Sherlock.

"Sherlock. What a surprise," Mycroft began.

Sherlock glared at his brother, his blue eyes darkening in anger. He took a step forward and slammed one of the chairs into his desk. Mycroft didn't flinch.

"I apologize for you walking in on that."

"That?" Sherlock spat out, "What the fuck was that?"

Mycroft blinked, admittedly a bit surprised by Sherlock's use of the curse word. He cleared his throat and again fixed his tie.

"That was my… girlfriend and me embracing."

"Your girlfriend?" Sherlock spat out, the word like venom on his tongue.

"Yes. Anthea and I have been together for…" Mycroft cleared his throat again and forced himself to maintain eye contact with Sherlock, "Four years."

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh and put his head against the wall, progressing into hitting it against the cold surface. He continued to laugh. Mycroft watched on.

"You've been dating her for four years?" He spat out, continuing to hit his head against the wall.

Mycroft thought it was best to keep quiet and let Sherlock finish his… fit.

A few moments of silence passed before Sherlock stood up straight and glanced back at Mycroft, his eyes furious and his body practically shaking.

"You said sentiment made you weak. You said to avoid it at all costs. You told me to close myself off!" He practically screamed, his body continuing to shake in light tremors.

"And I listened to you!" He continued to shout, "As you shagged your bloody fucking assistant all the while!"

Mycroft leaned against his desk, his eyes never leaving his younger brother. "Sherlock," he began, softly.

"No!" Sherlock practically screamed, "I have been listening to you since the day I could fucking talk! You warned me against developing feelings! You warned me not to… not to…"

He shook his head and collapsed into one of the seats. He dropped his head to his hands in an uncharacteristic abandoning of the camouflage he normally used against his feelings. He pulled at his curly locks and continuing speaking, his voice hoarse.

"You warned me not to fall in love."

Mycroft continued to watch his brother. He took a step forward and pressed a hand to Sherlock's shoulder.

"That was to protect you, Sherlock. Look at how you react when someone close to you is hurt. How you react when you don't get your way. I wanted to spare you the pain," Mycroft announced, his voice crisp.

Sherlock raised his head and glared at his brother, his body continuing to shake.

"Spare me the pain?" He let out a shrill laugh, "Oh brother, you did quite the opposite."

Sherlock violently knocked the hand off his shoulder and jumped out of the chair, before storming out of the office.

Mycroft sighed and grabbed his mobile, dialing the familiar number of Sherlock's best mate.

Xxx

Sherlock stared at the tank in front of him, his eyes locked on the blue water and the colorful fish that explored the inside of the container. His hands gripped the edges of the bench, his body shaking softly.

He continued to watch the fish, wondering what it was like for them to live such a pathetic existence. They were either born in captivity, forever programmed to live under the watchful eye of humans, only to explore the boundaries of the tank. Or, they were stolen from their home, a vast expanse of freedom and opportunity, only to be locked away in a fraction of what they had gotten to know.

In a way, he felt like the fish. But he wasn't sure whether he was truly born free, or born in captivity.

What would his life be like if he weren't like this? How would he live if he wasn't a prisoner to his own brain? To the teachings and warnings of Mycroft? To his past?

 _Molly was right. I'm controlled by my demons, no matter how hard I try to ignore them. Forget them._

That was evident by his current location.

He continued to watch one yellow fish with white stripes, its vibrancy reminding him of his Molly.

 _She's not mine._

As he watched the fish swim around, so beautiful, so free, he couldn't ignore her form flashing in his mind. Her soft grin, her beautiful laugh, her chocolate eyes, her comforting words, her warm embrace…

 _Molly._

He shut his eyes, on the verge of tears, wondering how to hell the great Sherlock Holmes had been reduced to such emptiness. He heard the footsteps behind him but didn't have the energy to look up.

"How did you find me?" He whispered.

John shoved his hands in his pockets and took a seat next to Sherlock, his own eyes scanning the haunting location, one that frequently lived in his nightmares. He took a deep breath.

"It wasn't hard," John began, "Mycroft said you stormed out of his office and would likely go somewhere that would make you evaluate your life. I… I figured that would be here."

Sherlock finally looked over at John, tears descending along his cheeks, no longer capable of holding in the sign of weakness.

"How did you know? How were you sure? There were so many before her." Sherlock managed.

John sighed and forced a smile. "You just… know."

Sherlock swallowed and looked back to the yellow fish, his heart pounding in his chest.

"I know."


	12. Most Ardently

" _I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine."_

Xxx

Sherlock dealt with his awful internal struggle for another day, forcing his brain to come to terms with what his heart already had.

He was in love with Molly.

And at John's warning from before, he had to tell her before it was too late.

That was precisely why he found himself standing in front of her door, on a Friday evening, trying to figure out how he could communicate his feelings. It was one of the only things that Sherlock ever struggled to do.

 _Sentiment. How awful._

He managed to knock before shoving his hands (which were gloveless after he threw them in Mycroft's office) into his Belstaff, and took a deep breath.

A few moments passed before Molly swung open the door and stepped back, clearly surprised by the sight of Sherlock. She cleared her throat and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, before pulling her dressing gown close to her tiny form to cover her old pyjamas.

 _She feels vulnerable._

 _Amusing._

 _So do I._

"Sherlock? What are you doing here? It's getting late," she began, her voice small, "You can't just… Stop by. Not anymore."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, his eyes focused on Molly's beautiful face. He looked around the entryway and past Molly's petite form in the doorway, deducing that George was not at her flat.

She just didn't want him to come inside.

Molly looked at him expectantly. She hugged herself, feeling uncomfortable under his gaze.

It always felt clinical. Cold. Distant.

 _Like him._

Sherlock took a deep breath, struggling with his word formulation and the weight of his tongue in his month. He had things that needed to be said. It was now or never.

"Molly, these past few months have been some of the worst of my life. From Mary's death, to the drugs, to…" He paused and took another breath, "So many awful things have occurred. But through it all, even as I desperately fought against it, even though I knew it would be unwise, mad even, it happened,"

He paused, his eyes searching her face for any sort of response or understanding of his words. At her blank gaze, he fiddled with his jacket and continued.

"I am, however, willing to look past how dangerous this progression could be for our friendship, how painful this entire circumstance and feeling is, the probability of this ending badly, to just for once try what I was always warned against and indulge myself."

Molly watched Sherlock, noticing that he appeared uncomfortable. Nervous even. As he finished his statement, she shifted on her feet, as usual, unsure of his meaning.

"I don't understand."

"I love you," He managed out, his blue eyes gazing into hers, "and I want the chance to be with you, Molly Hooper."

Her mouth fell open, utterly shocked by his words. She stumbled backwards before grabbing onto the hinge of the door, forcing herself to maintain eye contact with Sherlock.

"You… love me?" She managed out.

"That's what I just said."

Molly blinked and shook her head, conscious of the tears that began to spill from her eyes. Sherlock watched on, unsure of her response.

"Is this some kind of joke? Some last-ditch attempt to get me to stop dating George?"

Sherlock took a step back, alarmed by her words. "Why would you think that?"

"Because I know you!" She shot back, her hands coming up to wipe her eyes, "and I pined after you for _years_ , Sherlock. YEARS!"

Sherlock watched her, speechless, as she continued. "I loved you for years and you mocked my affection! Attacking my appearance, and my awkwardness, while at the same time batting your eyelashes and complimenting my hair for favors!"

She began to pace, her voice shrill and angry, "You used my unrequited love to solve cases and run experiments! So, forgive me if I've now caused you some sort of pain! Might I suggest an antacid?"

He swallowed and ran a shaking hand through his curls. "Are you mocking me?"

Molly just laughed, although her face indicated that she was anything but amused.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and forced himself to stand up straight, his shoulders moving to rigid attention. "So, you're rejecting me?"

Molly wiped her eyes and hugged herself before looking back into Sherlock's confused gaze. "Considering how 'unwise and mad' it is to fall in love with me, it should be pretty easy to forget about me."

"May I ask why you're laughing at me? Why you're treating my genuine feelings like a bloody joke?"

"Because that's how you treated mine!" She practically screamed, a new batch of tears falling down her face, "You really are like Mr. Darcy. You can't even confess that you have feelings for me without insulting me."

Sherlock took a step closer, his eyes narrowing on Molly's face. "I never took your affections to be a joke. Yes, I may have used them to my advantage, but I didn't throw them in your face!"

"Yes, you did! You still do!" She cried out, "You did it just the other day when you… When you kissed me!"

"That's not why I kissed you! I have—"

Molly shook her head and hugged her body, her hands pulling at the soft fabric of her dressing gown. "It doesn't even matter," she cried out, "You should not have kissed me when I'm with George!"

Sherlock stepped back and began to pace. "What's so bloody great about George? He's overcompensating for his lack of masculinity by spending money. He knows nothing about you. He's a smarmy git and you know it! He—"

Molly shoved him and continued to cry. "STOP!"

Sherlock swallowed and stopped talking, his eyes locked on Molly's sad, chocolate eyes.

"You resort to bullying when you don't get the things you want, Sherlock. Love included."

She sniffled and took a step backwards, into her flat, and wiped a few loose tears from her face. She looked back at Sherlock, who looked… lost.

"I'm glad you finally figured out what you want in life," she practically whispered, "But I can't be it. Your pride, and your inability to open up, and your blatant disregard for the feelings of those around you…"

The hallway grew quiet, making the fluorescent lighting of the building even more intense. Her brown orbs met his blue gaze.

With a shuddering breath, she whispered, "You're the last man in the world I could be happy with."

Sherlock swallowed and looked to his feet before back to Molly. He let his eyes travel from her chocolate orbs, to her rosy cheeks, to her soft lips.

 _Do you remember what it felt like to kiss her lips?_

 _I hope you do._

 _Because that was the first and last time._

He took a step back and ran his hands through his curls once more.

"Forgive me, Molly, for taking up so much of your time."

With that, he disappeared, his coat billowing behind him as he hurried into the cold London night.

Molly shut her door and leaned against in, breaking into another fit of sobs. As Toby scampered over and climbed into her arms, she hugged the fur beast to her chest, continuing to cry.

"Why can't he ever make things simple? I hate him! I hate him so fucking much!"

 _If only that were true._

 _Because you remember what it felt like to kiss his lips._

 _I hope you never forget._

 _Because that was the first and last time._


	13. Petulance and Acrimony

" _We do not suffer by accident."_

Xxx

John sat sprawled across his sofa, in a pair of his favorite pyjamas (the one with the loose waistband to compensate for the few pounds he had gained over the past couple of months), half a container deep into his favorite strawberry ice cream. He had finally gotten Rosie to sleep, which had been no easy feat over the past few weeks. Her second tooth was peeking through, and she was still in incredible pain, and noisy as a result.

At any rate, he was looking forward to dozing off while watching crappy telly, wondering if Sherlock had stuck to his guns and actually went to confess to Molly. He glanced at the clock.

 _Midnight._

He chuckled and ate another spoonful, wondering if the evening had been a success. Would the two be cuddled up in bed, catching up on lost time?

The thought brought a smile to his face. He couldn't imagine a happy, hopelessly in love Sherlock.

The sound of frantic knocking drew John out of his thoughts. He glanced at the clock yet again and sighed.

 _Guess it didn't go well._

John shuffled over to the door and opened it, coming face to head with Sherlock, who was currently bent over and dry heaving. He frowned.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock leaned over the side of the porch and vomited into the bushes, subjecting John to the disgusting odor of vomit and alcohol. John gagged before crossing his arms, looking down at Sherlock like a parent to a child.

"How drunk are you?"

Sherlock let out another sound of distress and emptied his stomach before finally gazing up to look at John, albeit dazed.

"Not enough," he managed to slur out, "because I'm still conscious."

John sighed and helped Sherlock inside and onto his sofa. He stood over the drunk man with a look of frustration and disappointment.

 _And understanding. You've been there, John._

"How much did you drink? In comparison to my stag?"

Sherlock let out an obnoxious laugh and hugged one of the sofa pillows. "More. Much, much, more. Have you heard of a drink called 'Adios Mother Fucker'? A university student bought me one."

John sighed and wandered out, listening to Sherlock list out the many, many, many shots he had consumed over the span of three hours. He returned to his sitting room, dropping a pair of pyjamas and a bottle of water next to the detective, along with a bin to catch any further episodes.

"Change. Drink the water. Then we'll chat."

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent and began to strip, albeit with great difficulty. John sat down and crossed his arms, watching as Sherlock finally collapsed back onto the sofa, now dressed in a pair of pyjamas too short for his lanky frame.

"So. What happened?"

Sherlock took a sip of water and hiccupped. He grabbed the bin and hugged it to his chest, resting his cheek on the edge of the plastic.

"I told Molly that I loved her. And she didn't believe me!"

"She didn't believe you?"

"She thought I was making fun of her. And then… She said I never took her feelings seriously."

"You were kind of a git."

Sherlock let out a retching noise and vomited into the bin. He groaned and looked back over at John.

"Then she told me that I was the last man she could be happy with."

John frowned and watched as Sherlock vomited again. He sighed.

"So, your response was to get pissed?"

Sherlock snorted and leaned against the bin.

"What other choice did I have? I feel…"

John frowned and squirmed in his seat, all too familiar with what his friend was currently going through.

"Your heart is broken."

Sherlock laughed bitterly and shut his eyes.

"Yes, that. Quite a surprise considering I didn't know I had a heart before yesterday."

John looked over to the photo of he and Mary on their wedding day. He picked up the frame and looked at their smiling faces, barely concealing his frown.

"It's the worst possible feeling in the world. Losing someone you love. Either to death, or unrequited love. My heart has been broken for a while too. It hurts but… I reckon we can help each other move on."

John looked over at Sherlock, unsurprised to see the detective knocked out cold, his face still pressed against the bin. John sighed and moved the bin to the ground, and helped move Sherlock into an adequate position on the sofa. After taking care of the vomit, he went upstairs and climbed into his own empty bed.

"You'd know exactly what to do."

John looked over to the empty spot beside him and frowned. The blonde of his dreams smiled back and stroked his hair.

"Oh hush, John. He will get through this. It's Sherlock we're talking about."

John nodded and shut his eyes, before drifting off into a needed sleep.

Xxx

 _Peter, Harry, and Connor surrounded Sherlock, who sat slumped against the leather bench of their booth. Sherlock took another draw of his beer and coughed, his eyes darting between the three University students who had joined his pity party._

" _It's alright, mate. Harry just got dumped by his girlfriend. We'll get you so pissed you won't remember the bird's name. Brilliant, yeah?" Peter announced, quickly sliding a shot of what appeared to be tequila towards the detective._

 _Sherlock just nodded and took the shot, wincing in disgust as the liquid hit his throat. "Bloody hell is that awful!"_

 _Connor laughed and pushed a blue drink towards Sherlock. "Try this one. It's called an AMF. Had it during a holiday in Miami. It'll really mess you up."_

 _Sherlock took one look at the liquid, no longer caring what he put in his body. He swallowed the drink in two gulps, immediately coughing. The trio of students laughed._

" _Adios Mother Fucker!" Harry announced delightedly, as a waitress came by with another round of shots._

 _Sherlock looked at the table, filled with both empty and full glasses, and just slumped against the booth._

 _This would do. Surely he could duplicate the bliss of a high with alcohol._

 _He just needed something. Anything._

Sherlock bolted up and grabbed his head, his vision slowly shifting from blurred objects to the makeup of John's sitting room. He grabbed onto the side of the sofa and observed his surroundings.

 _John's pyjamas, bin by the sofa, pounding head ache._

He cursed and pulled at his curls, irritated by his own actions. How could he have allowed himself to get so pissed? He frowned and forbid himself from considering if he contacted Molly while intoxicated.

Sherlock took a shaking sip of his water and continued to stare at his pale, bare feet against John's wooden floor. He just blinked and wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him when a child appeared at his ankles.

"Ock!"

Rosie, still dressed in her footie pyjamas, held up her Anna and Kristoff doll. She gave him another heart-clenching smile.

Sherlock frowned and pet the young girl's hair.

"Good morning, Rosie," he managed to choke out.

John wandered into the sitting room and handed Rosie a sippy cup. The child eagerly began to slurp down the liquid, her eyes still locked on Sherlock in pure fascination. John gave Sherlock a knowing look.

"How are you feeling?"

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh. "I'm not sure if I'm in more pain from the hangover or her words."

"I'm sure. I'm making breakfast. You're welcome to stay here, if you'd like."

Sherlock took a gulp of water from the bottle that appeared beside him and just nodded weakly.

"Yes, that might be nice."

"Ock!" Rosie announced again, this time standing and banging the dolls at his knee. Sherlock frowned.

"Not now, Rosie. Maybe later we can play."

Satisfied with his answer, the girl crawled to another bin of toys and dove in. John dropped beside Sherlock and set out a plate of toast. He took a bite and yawned.

"You wanna talk now?"

Sherlock eyed the bread with trepidation before taking a tentative bite. As he gnawed on the dry carbs, he maintained a steady gaze on the ground.

"I don't believe there is much to discuss. She rejected me."

"So. That's it. The great Sherlock Holmes is just giving up? After finally falling in love, he's jumping ship when things don't go according to plan?"

Sherlock frowned and took another bite. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to respond to any of this. I'm not familiar with love and feelings and the like."

"Well, mate, unfortunately you can't use that as an excuse any more. You need to figure it out and how you're going to give Molly the fairytale."

"Fairytale?"

"You know. Grand wedding, lots of kids, big house. That sort of thing."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Molly would want a small and intimate wedding. Not more than two children since she's focused on her career. And I reckon she'd prefer a cozy home, but big enough for a garden and for her mum to move in eventually."

John just blinked. "You've… thought about this?"

"Of course. Not only has she mentioned things in the past, but when I confessed to her, I needed a set course of action."

John swallowed and considered his words carefully. "Which would be…?"

"Courtship. Followed by a proposal, preferably longer than her failed relationship with Tom. Then, a small wedding. We'd be married for at least two years before we'd have our first child."

John frowned. "Right. You've considered a future with her. Which means you can't just give up. You need to fight for her."

Sherlock frowned and looked over at Rosie, who currently sat gnawing on a teething toy. He took a deep breath.

"Her relationship with Tom never scared me. I was never afraid of losing her, albeit at the time platonically, because I was adamant that she would never marry him. Aside from his build and hair, he was nothing like me."

Sherlock watched as Rosie grabbed her Anna doll, and instead of grabbing her Kristoff doll, picked up her Hans. He sighed and looked back to John.

"George is also nothing like me," Sherlock whispered, now captivated by the little girl and her dolls, "But according to Molly, George is wonderful for precisely that reason."

John watched his friend, amazed by the hurt and confusion riddling Sherlock's features. He had never seen his friend so distraught.

"Don't give up then, Sherlock. You'll regret this forever if you let her go. If you're hurt now, just imagine what you'll feel like if they get married."

Sherlock flinched at the mention of a wedding and dropped his head to his hands. He pulled at his curls before looking back at John.

"Right. Okay. So. I continue to pursue Molly. She must still have some feelings for me, right?"

John shrugged. "Well, I'd reckon so since she loved you for so bloody long. But you were also an awful prat and George is a really nice bloke so… Who knows?"

Sherlock sighed and grabbed the plastic bin.

"Wonderful. Then the game is still on."

With that, he vomited into the bin.

Xxx

The curtains were drawn, hiding the powerful sunlight of the London mid-morning. The air was stifling, filled with the heady scent of sweat and cheap wine. The room was still, eerily so, especially after Toby had abandoned his position on the woman's lap, and disappeared.

In fact, as the lump remained sprawled across the sofa, covered by a sheet pulled from her bed, the only true sign of life was the tone of her pressing her mobile, replaying the message again.

" _Molly? Molly? Why won't you answer my call?"_

 _His normally crisp drawl was shaky. Nervous. Unhinged._

" _I had to ring you to say it again. I love you. I realize it seems impossible. I thought it was. Especially since love is so tedious and distracting."_

 _Background noise, which appeared to be music and obnoxious cheering, interrupted his words. She could hear movement from his side of the line, as well as the telltale noise of him swallowing a mouthful of something._

" _Did you know that Mycroft has been shagging Anthea? After years of telling me to avoid sentiment! He was the bloody worst perpetrator of all."_

 _The sound of liquid being chugged again filled the air._

" _He betrayed me. Just like I betrayed you Molly. Your trust and your friendship."_

 _Silence filled the air before shuffling broke the stillness._

" _George was right. You deserve so much. Perhaps more than I could ever give you. But that changes little. I still love you. I'd even accept the stupid cat."_

 _More chugging._

" _I think I believe in soul mates now. I reckon you're mine. I wonder if—"_

 _More shuffling, followed by very excited, distinctly male voices._

" _Sherlock!" an unfamiliar voice yelled, "Harry bought a round! Let's go!"_

" _Hey mate, who are you on the phone with?" another voice said._

 _Indiscernible mumbling filled the air, as if someone held the phone to their lap._

" _Hello? Yes, Sherlock is unable to chat now. Cheers!" a third voice announced, before the line went dead._

The eerie silence filled the room again.

Until she pressed the tone.

" _Molly? Molly? Why won't you answer my call?"_

Xxx

Sherlock let the hot water hit his aching skin, the powerful blast a cruel reminder of the pain he had withstood over the past 24 hours. First, the Brotherly Betrayal, as John had coined. Followed by Molly's rejection. Finished by a drinking binge that left him vomiting into a bin for hours on end.

He was physically and emotionally drained.

As he lathered his curls in the soapy suds, contemplating what to do next, he again forced himself to accept the truth.

He loved Molly.

Not in the way that he loved John, or Rosie, or solving a case, or making Mycroft sweat.

He wanted to hold her close at night. Kiss her until her lips went numb. Discuss medical advancements as often as tea was drank. See her take his last name. Eventually share children. Die together.

He shut his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the water rinse clean his body and soul.

Never once in his life did he ever imagine craving the companionship of another person. He couldn't believe his own acknowledgement that he wanted to someday marry Molly and have children with her.

A small child with curly brown hair, a button nose, and hazel eyes flashed through his mind so quickly and shockingly that he had to grab onto the door of the shower to steady himself.

He let out a shrill laugh and pounded his fists against the wet tile.

"Damn you all!" he yelled into the empty bathroom.

A soft knock broke him out of his trance. He could hear John's throat clearing through the door and the steady stream of water.

"You good in there, mate? Recover any way you want, yeah? Just remember if you wank in there that I bathe Rosie in the same tub."

Sherlock groaned and continued to pound his fists against the tile, ignoring John's laugh and eventual departure.

He would exit this shower and be clean. Clean of the grime of the night before. Clean of his past. Clean of the demons that haunted his dreams and thoughts. Clean of the baggage.

He would go after Molly. Fight for her. Prove that he could love her.

The game was nowhere near finished.


	14. Most Seriously Displeased

" _She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man."_

Xxx

Toby was never very fond of excessive attention, normally harboring quite a distaste for being overly groomed or forced into hour long cuddle sessions with Molly after work. He much preferred an occasional brushing, a treat or two, but to mainly be left alone. That was of course, normally the case.

However, as he currently sprawled across his favorite chair, his eyes glued to his master, he suddenly craved attention. Because it had been three days since Molly had first laid on the sofa, and she hadn't moved since.

Why wasn't she giving him any love? Surely she didn't think he wanted to be ignored. Toby hissed and began to lick himself, fed up with the situation.

Across the room, Molly huddled under her favorite blanket, her mobile pressed to her ear, her free hand fiddling with her fuzzy socks.

"No, George, please, don't worry. I'm fine. Just caught a cold. I'll be back to work on Tuesday," she assured, her fingers pulling and smoothing the soft material on her feet.

"Are you sure Molly? I want to bring you soup, or medicine, or just keep you company. Whatever you need," George told her, his concerned voice escaping her mobile and bouncing off the walls.

Molly swallowed and laid back, a fresh batch of tears flooding her eyes. "Thank you so much for worrying, George. But I assure you. I'm fine. Get back to work and I'll hopefully see you tomorrow."

Not letting him respond, Molly ended the call and brought her knees to her chest. She pressed her cheek to the soft material of her pyjamas, her body shaking with silent sobs.

How could she be so bloody stupid? Three days after seeing Sherlock and she remained glued to her sofa, sobbing her eyes out like the biblical fucking flood. All the while, she had a lovely and caring boyfriend who just wanted to please her, ready to barge through her door with soup and a smile.

And yet, she preferred the git who once told her that her breasts were too small and to avoid dating for the sake of the Commonwealth.

Molly buried her face in the sofa pillow, thinking back to her first meeting with Sherlock. As soon as her eyes met his tall, muscled form, and traveled up to his angelic face and oceanic eyes, she knew she was doomed. Of course, he cooled that instant infatuation by opening his mouth, and expressing to every person in the room how much of a proud, arrogant prat he was.

And yet, her attraction stayed red hot. Of course, her desire for Sherlock extended past his physical looks. His intelligence had always been devilishly appealing to Molly. In fact, even after medical school and years in the London dating pool, she had never met a man who matched her own intelligence and impressed her the way Sherlock had.

Of course, her affinity for his face and brain eventually extended to his heart as she truly got to know him. She knew how deeply he cared, how desperately he tried to compartmentalize his life and the people in it. She recognized the heart of the gold and the desire to do what was right.

What so many failed to understand about Sherlock, from the likes of Donovan and Anderson to the entire press, was how his brain worked. Sure, he got a kick out of murder and playing with body parts. But he used his interests and skills to do genuine good for the city—he solved murders and brought justice to those who needed it most. Instead of feeding his morbid curiosity by committing the crimes, he was devoting his life to stopping them. Whether selfishly or selflessly, he was fixing the world.

Sherlock Holmes was practically a super hero. Devilishly handsome. Exceedingly arrogant and proud. Smart, quick-witted, and crafty. A tragic backstory.

Molly sniffled and sat up on the sofa, finally allowing her eyes to adjust to the sunlight pouring into her flat.

 _If he's the superhero, what am I? The obsessive fan? Or am I now the love interest?_

Molly peered back at her mobile and thought back to Sherlock's voicemail. She wondered if that was the most honest he had ever been with her. With anyone.

 _I think I believe in soul mates now. I reckon you're mine._

At the memory of his words, she broke into another fit of tears. Finally fed up with her crying and being ignored, Toby scampered back on the sofa and snuggled into his Molly.

 _I love you._

The tears never stopped.

Xxx

Sherlock sat at the edge of the table, his fingers beating against the wooden surface, rattling the plate filled with chicken and rice in front of him. John looked away from Rosie, who he was trying to feed what appeared to be pureed carrots to, and directed his gaze at Sherlock.

"Oy, Sherlock, cut that out. And eat for God's sake. If you're staying here, you're going to act like a human being."

Sherlock shook his head and continued to tap his fingers, his eyes shifting over every inch of the room. From the dry chicken, to yellow rice, to John's favorite work shirt (now a size too small), to Rosie's adorable chubby cheeks, and lastly, to his mobile, which rested comfortably beside his hand.

"Molly didn't go to work today," Sherlock finally announced, his gaze shifting back over to John.

John sighed and dropped the spoon, now focused on cleaning Rosie's face with her already filthy bib. He looked over at Sherlock before moving his cleaning to Rosie's sticky little fists.

"And how do you know that? I thought you didn't leave the house today."

Sherlock laughed. "Of course I left. I needed to speak to Molly. I stopped at St. Bart's and was told that she was ill," he paused and looked back at his mobile, "but I believe that to be a lie."

"Right. And who watched Rosie during this little field trip?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I brought her along. We…. Bonded."

John groaned and picked Rosie up, bringing the child to sit on his lap. "I really wish you'd let me know before you go gallivanting across the city. Especially in the state you're in."

"And what state am I in, exactly?"

John gave him a look. "Must I?"

"Please. Continue. I'd love to hear what you have to say," he yawned and sipped the water in front of him, "of course by love I mean have no interest but, by all means, continue."

"Well, you're a recovering drug addict who just discovered that his brother is a hypocritical git. Then, of course, after only just realizing that you are capable of love, being rejected by the only woman you've ever cared about."

Sherlock glared at John and stood up. "I'm fine. I'm bloody fucking perfectly fine."

"Of course you are Sherlock," John muttered, before shoving the remaining forkful of rice into his mouth.

Sherlock jumped to his feet and ran his hands through his curly hair. He sighed before opening his mouth.

"I've always been able to divorce myself from feelings. And now…. Now I can't. I'm at a loss, John. What do I do? Where do I go from here?"

John smiled sadly and pulled Rosie closer, his hand holding her small head against his chest. He looked over at Sherlock, who had moved to stand in front of a line of family photos along the mantle above his fireplace. Sherlock's gaze shifted from photos of John and Mary's wedding day, to John's deployment, to Harriet's graduation, to Rosie on her first birthday, to her baptism.

Sherlock picked up the photo, his eyes shifting from Mary's smiling form to Molly's, his heart constricting in guilt and loss. He looked over at John, who offered him another sad smile.

"Love's pretty hard, Sherlock. It took me almost forty years to find my soul mate. And I still managed to muck it up, even when things seemed to be going perfectly."

John sighed and placed Rosie in her play pen, watching with loving fascination as the little girl hugged a stuffed dog to her chest.

"I don't know what to tell you. There's no right way to go about love. You think my relationship with Mary was anything like what Mycroft is doing with Anthea? Or anything like how your father courted your mum? Love changes depending on the person."

John laughed and sat down, continuing to watch Sherlock. "And as you and I very well know, you are nothing like the average person."

"You haven't answered my question," was all Sherlock spoke, his eyes still locked on the photo from the church.

John sighed and crossed his arms, watching his mate. "I don't think there's anything you can do but just prove to her that you truly love her. But I reckon you're going about this the wrong way. You can't focus on proving why George isn't as good as you. You just have to show that you're the right man for her."

"That's ridiculous. George is clearly the inferior choice. I'm more attractive, in better shape, more intelligent, have better genetics for future offspring, have a higher net worth, have—"

John cursed and shook his head. "Jesus, Sherlock, shut up, will you? That's not the point. You will only anger her if you keep popping up calling George a git. Just let him do his own thing. You just need to show her that you've changed. That you love her. And, most importantly, that you're serious about her. The long haul. Marriage, kids, death do us part kind of haul."

Sherlock swallowed. "I'll go to her tomorrow. We have a lot to talk about."

John nodded and gave him another soft smile. "Take it slow, yeah? I don't think this is the sort of relationship that can be patched up with just a kiss and an apology."

"Are you sure kissing her wouldn't work? Isn't that how quarrels are normally solved in films?"

"For someone so bloody smart, you really are an idiot."

Sherlock set the photo back down and shrugged. "Perhaps. Now. I have an experiment to finish. If you'll excuse me."

John blinked and jumped to his feet. "Experiment? What experiment? In my home?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes. I had Lestrade fetch me a pinky from St. Bart's since Mike owed him a favor. It's resting in your fridge."

John growled and stormed after Sherlock. "You bastard! This is not Baker Street! Rosie will not be drinking pinky flavored milk!

Xxx

Molly walked into St. Bart's on Tuesday morning, a takeaway coffee in her hands, wearing the most casual outfit she could wear to work without breaking the dress code. After her weekend, she wasn't exactly fancying wearing tight trousers or even bothering to put a full face of makeup on.

She walked over to her desk and dropped her bag, forcing herself to take a calming deep breath. Just eight hours of work, and then she could be at home, stuffing her face with pizza or whatever her stomach desired, and watching shitty telly.

Talk about an ideal evening.

Those thoughts vanished the moment she realized she wasn't alone. Sitting at his favorite microscope, clad in lavender shirt and his Belstaff, Sherlock rested cautiously in the stool. He watched her with trepidation, his hands bunched up in his lap like a small boy awaiting punishment from his mum.

Molly took another calming breath and slipped into her lab coat. She moved to a far wall and began to collect various instruments and tools, careful to avoid Sherlock's gaze.

Well, to be frank, she was pretending he wasn't there.

About five minutes passed within this charade. Molly washed a few tools, grabbed a folder, and moved towards her desk, all while Sherlock studied her movements. He was always amazed watching her at work. She was one of the smartest people he had ever met, and she always looked so bloody beautiful while in her element, whether filing away paperwork, gently chastising interns, or leaning over a cadaver.

But, even as delightful as the scene was, Sherlock was never one to wait. As Molly flipped through a stack of papers, Sherlock rose to his feet and cleared his throat, causing Molly to pause her digging and become rigidly still.

"Molly," he began, his voice cautious, "I was hoping we could talk."

Molly refused to look at him, and instead continued digging through her files. "I'm a bit busy, Sherlock. I was—"

"You were out yesterday. Mike Stamford said you had a cold. But given your attire, complexion, and state of distress, I know that narrative to be false."

Molly shook her head angrily and finally turned to face Sherlock. "I don't have the time nor the patience for your bloody deducing Sherlock. I have work to do."

With that, she moved back to her cabinets, quickly removing a few jars of chemicals and other tools to prepare for her morning autopsies. Sherlock cursed and pulled at his hair, unnaturally at a loss of how to respond.

"Molly," he began again, pausing to take a deep breath, "I really believe we should talk. We said many things on—"

At this point, Molly was shaking so much at the sound of his voice that she ran into her desk and knocked her coffee to the ground, causing the brown liquid to fly everywhere. She let out a frustrated cry and kicked the discarded cup. Sherlock stopped his speaking, watching her with wide eyes.

"I can't do this!" She cried out, a few tears drawing the little bit of mascara she had applied down her red cheeks, "I really can't Sherlock. Not right now. Please."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, watching as Molly dropped to her knees and began to clean the coffee from the once sterile floor. Knowing he was not wanted, and now having the social graces to appreciate that fact, he moved towards the door.

He looked at Molly once more and frowned, his gaze locked on her small form, wiping away at the mess. He slid his hands into his pockets and pushed opened the doors.

"I meant what I said, Molly. Every bit of it."

He disappeared, leaving Molly to fall backwards onto her bum, and look towards the swinging doors. She wiped at her eyes with her jacket sleeve, sniffling in a bid to calm down her emotions.

She allowed herself a few moments of sitting on the tile floor, letting her mind and body relax. As she took another shaky breath, an alarming thought crossed her mind.

Even her work place wasn't safe. The sterile walls, the white floor, the same microscope with the beat-up stool, even the bloody fucking cadavers that changed every day….

They all reminded her of Sherlock. His constant presence. Like a ghost haunting her.

When she finally had the energy to discard the coffee soaked rags and move to actually begin working, George entered the lab, a giant grin on his face. She forced a pleasant smile.

"Hi, George. What are you doing here?" She asked, before moving back to sort through her files.

George smiled and moved to her, dropping a bakery box beside her and pressing a kiss to her head. "I wanted to visit my lovely girlfriend. I sure hope you're feeling better from yesterday."

Molly perked up a bit at the sight of the bakery box, and offered George a small smile. "Yes. Relatively. But I'm fine, really. You should head to work. I have a lot to catch up on."

George nodded and pressed a short kiss to her lips, his green eyes sparkling with admiration for the woman in front of him. "Call me when you're off, will you?"

Molly nodded. "I will. Have a good day!"

Her boyfriend grinned and trotted off, leaving Molly with a desperately needed box of sugar. She almost moaned in pleasure as she opened the box, until her eyes landed on four distinct, rather expensive looking pastries. Her eyes roamed from one to next, not believing what she was seeing.

 _A cranberry scone. A blueberry muffin. A tiny Victoria sponge. A miniature mince pie._

She sighed and shut the box, shoving it away from her desk. She dropped her head back to her hands, suddenly in another fit of tears.

 _I wanted to plan something that I knew we'd both love._

As tears continued to fall down her cheeks, a small blue box at the corner of the desk caught her eye. She grabbed it and removed the card from the top, sniffling as she read it.

 _Hope you're feeling better! Just a treat from my daughter's fundraiser at school. Everyone knows you can't resist a bit of chocolate. – Mike_

Molly practically whimpered at her boss' sincerity, before opening the box and seeing a delicious chocolate cupcake, with loads of creamy brown frosting. She couldn't think twice before taking a large bite and slumping backwards in her chair, tears continuing down her face.

Even her bloody boss knew that she'd put Cadbury out of business before touching a blueberry with a barge pole. But George typically got her what he fancied. Anything that helped him train for his next 5k or marathon.

She finished the rest of the cupcake in one bite and wiped her eyes, sick of feeling sorry for herself. She looked back at the bakery box and shook her head. Her boyfriend, perhaps the sweetest man in the world, brought her pastries in her time of need, and yet she was pulling apart his choices like a judgmental old bat?

No. This wouldn't do. She rose to her feet and took a deep breath. She'd thank Mike for his lovely token, and later that evening, she'd shag George so hard he wouldn't be able to run in his upcoming 5k.

 _Yes. That would do._

Xxx

As Molly exited St. Bart's after her shift, she was surprised to find John Watson sitting on a bench outside of the hospital, reading a newspaper, albeit glancing up every so often to look around. At the sight of him, she pulled her jacket closer, and prayed the man wouldn't notice her. As much as she loved John, she knew what was going to happen, and quite frankly, after her day, she just didn't have the—

"Molly!" His chipper voice broke through her thoughts, and once she moved her gaze from the ground to back to where he was, she discovered that the friendly doctor was now right in front of her. She swallowed and forced a polite smile his way.

"Good evening, John. How are you? How's Rosie?"

"Oh, she's good. Teething and in some pain, but overall good."

"Splendid," Molly offered, before looking towards the path that would take her to her tube station, "I wish I could catch up but I really should go."

As she began to walk away, she heard his voice again.

"Molly," He began, following her movements, "You know what I'm here about."

Molly hugged her bag to her chest, refusing to look back at John. "I have an idea."

"Could we talk then?"

"I just don't think that's a good—"

John held up his hand and took a deep breath. "I'll make it short and sweet then, Molly. I know Sherlock is a prat. Probably better than anyone else. He's always been a selfish, reckless, arrogant dick. But he's also changed a ton. He may have trouble beginning to care for someone, but when he starts to, he's one of the most loyal, caring, and protective people I've ever met."

Molly sniffled and hugged herself, finally willing to meet John's blue gaze. "Your relationship with Sherlock is lovely, John. But it's complicated between me and him."

John couldn't help but scoff. "Complicated? You're going to try complicated with me, Molly? Sure, Sherlock and I may have never kissed or proclaimed love, but our relationship hasn't always been neat and dandy. It still isn't."

Molly frowned and looked away, suddenly overwhelmed with the thoughts of Sherlock's guilt over Mary's death. She took a shuttering breath.

"Look," John began again, "Sherlock trusts you so much. Sometimes I think he trusts you more than he trusts me. Molly… He… He faked his death, and left you as one of the only people—"

"Because he had to!" Molly shot back, "That was a decision out of necessity, John."

John couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, bollocks Molly. You know damn well that Sherlock never does anything unless he wants to. You don't think Mycroft has the means to get the most skilled and talented people in the world to do his dirty business? Sherlock picked you because he trusted you. Because you're his friend."

Molly wiped her eyes, surprised to feel yet another onslaught of tears. John noticed her state and sighed, running a hand through his own peppered hair.

"I know he's hurt you. He's hurt me. But he's been hurt too," he began, pausing to think over his words, "I'm not telling you to pursue him romantically Molly, not if you don't want that. But I want you to know that if he says he loves you, then he means it."

"Why now?" was all she could muster out.

John frowned and shook his head. "He's scared Molly. Scared of losing you."

"That's not a reason to pursue love," she threw back, her voice cracking.

"Maybe so. But for someone like Sherlock Holmes, who has never given enough of a fuck about anyone to fear losing them, it is Molly. You know he showed up to my door Friday night, piss drunk? It's not my business to divulge what he's said, but I want you to know that he's serious about you."

Molly finally met John's gaze again. The two studied each other for a moment.

"He loves you. Take that token of information any way you'd like. But if I were you, I'd give him a chance."

John sighed and glanced down at his watch. "I gotta go. Mrs. Hudson has a date so I need to grab Rosie. You should come over sometime. See Rosie. She misses you."

Molly just nodded, continuing to stare at him. He offered her a sad smile.

"I couldn't tell you how many times Sherlock has made me angry, betrayed my trust, and made me want to punch him in the face. But I couldn't even begin to estimate how many times he's made me laugh, saved my arse, nursed me to health, and helped me through the worst period of my life."

John began to walk away, but halted to give Molly one more fleeting look.

"Give him a chance. Because believe me, Sherlock would have never taken you to see a football match in Liverpool for a romantic getaway."

John winked before hurrying off, disappearing down the stairs into the tube station.

Xxx

Sherlock had been on the move since dropping by to visit Molly earlier in the day. Desperate to clear his unusually jumbled mind, he had spent most of the day pestering Lestrade at Scotland Yard, drilling most of the work completed by the team over the past few weeks. He even got Anderson to buy him coffee and crisps. A job well done in his mind.

At any rate, the boys had closed shop, and he now found himself back at John's place, alone. John had taken off with Rosie sometime during Sherlock's absence, and he hadn't returned since. Admittedly, it did feel a bit odd watching telly in his best mate's house, all alone. He normally at least had Rosie for company.

He did consider returning to Baker Street, but since his confession, he just needed a change of scenery. A change of pace. Just change.

The doorbell rang, forcing Sherlock out of his thoughts. He practically growled when he realized that he couldn't boss anyone around to get it, and instead was forced to answer it himself. When he swung open the door, he was met with the sight of a short, brown-haired woman, impeccably dressed and typing away on her mobile.

 _Christ. Another traitor._

She gave him a pleasant smile. "Must I explain my presence?" she asked.

Sherlock growled and slipped into his coat. "No. Let's get this over with."

Without prompting, he exited the house, slamming the door shut. He moved quickly down the stairs and to the street, before entering the menacing black car. As his arse met the dark leather, his eyes met Mycroft's intrigued gaze.

"Brother mine," Mycroft began, his legs crossed, his aura haughty.

Sherlock scoffed and crossed his arms, indignantly and stubbornly avoiding his brother's gaze. "What do you want?"

"I wanted us to chat. You know. Brother to brother."

Sherlock practically snorted and finally looked over to Mycroft. "Oh, piss off Mycroft. I'm not in the bloody mood."

"Well, I'm not surprised, considering you were rejected by Dr. Hooper and have been residing with John and Rosamund Watson since," Mycroft replied, an almost amused tone to his words.

Sherlock growled. "How on earth do you know that Molly rejected me?"

Mycroft just shrugged. "I have my sources."

"John called you," Sherlock shot back.

Mycroft quirked his eyebrow. "Again, brother, sources."

"At any rate, piss off."

"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, his features suddenly dimming in displeasure, "I really do wish to talk to you. Our last conversation didn't exactly go well."

Sherlock crossed his arms and looked out the window, watching as the bright lights of London disappeared as the car drove along. He cursed and ran his hands through his curls.

"Sentiment is the chemical defect found in the losing side," Sherlock began, "That is always what you've told me."

Mycroft sighed and shifted his legs, his eyes locked on his brother. "Indeed. I have always warned you against developing feelings for anyone."

"Yet," Sherlock hissed out, "You've apparently been in a relationship with the secretary for four bloody years." His eyes drifted over to Anthea, who was still typing away on her mobile, completely removed from the conversation.

"That is accurate," was all Mycroft offered in response.

Sherlock practically ripped his hair out. "Why? Why the hell have you told me one thing and done the other?"

Mycroft studied his younger brother, noticing the telltale sign of distress and discomfort. He sighed and began to speak.

"Sherlock, from a young age, you showed everyone that you were different. Failure and loss affected you differently than the other children. You have an addictive personality, and frequently obsess about things, especially that which you cannot control."

Mycroft shifted in his seat, leaning forward to address Sherlock directly.

"I advised you to avoid sentiment to keep yourself safe. I didn't want you to have your heart and soul destroyed by someone being out of reach. And it was never a problem before. Not until now."

Mycroft placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, their gazes locked.

"For the record, sentiment is an extraordinary thing. It is a motivator, a facilitator, and a reward for the shortcomings in life, to which there are many. I too used to swear off sentiment, preferring to keep my mind clear of distraction. But then I met Anthea, and for the first time, nothing mattered except her happiness."

He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, sighing yet again.

"I want you to be happy, brother mine, and I am truly sorry for not informing you of my relationship, and apologize if you felt betrayed by it. That was certainly not my intention. But as you never showed any feelings to anyone before, let alone an attraction, I did not expect this…. Incident with Dr. Hooper to occur."

Sherlock contemplated his brother's words, his fists clenching and unclenching the thick material of his jacket. He cursed and dropped his head, shutting his eyes in the process.

"So, to be clear, you and Anthea are in a loving relationship?" was all he asked.

Mycroft nodded with a smile, his eyes flickering from the woman in the window seat to back to his brother.

"Yes, we are. And I would only want the same for you and Molly, if that is what your heart desires."

"It is." Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft released Sherlock's shoulder and sat back, giving his brother a friendly grin. "Well then, brother mine, welcome to the Losers' Club. You may get distracted periodically, but you'll certainly be happy. And shag quite a bit." He shot Anthea a flirtatious look. The woman merely looked up from her mobile, winked at her boyfriend, before returning her focus.

Sherlock gagged and threw his head back, covering his eyes with his hands.

"God, Mycroft, that's disgusting."

"You won't be saying that when you and Molly begin to make love."

Sherlock scowled and kicked his brother. "Maybe so, but now I have to think about your god awful naked body!"

"I really don't see the issue discussing making love. How do you think you were created? Mum and dad called upon the stork?"

Sherlock gagged again and pulled at his curls. "OUT! I WANT OUT!"

Mycroft just laughed. "Oh, my dearest brother, you have so much to get used to."


	15. In Practice, Not Principle

" _A girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then."_

Xxx

The week finally winded down, and Friday night came at a much-needed time. Molly was both physically and mentally exhausted from the week, and thankfully had avoided interaction with pretty much everyone sans her colleagues since her meeting with John. She had exchanged only a few, brief texts with George since his visit on Tuesday morning, and had spent the past few evenings snuggled up with Toby, watching every BBC miniseries adapted from a Jane Austen novel and sobbing over her life.

At any rate, knowing the weekend had finally arrived, she was in better spirits, and currently on her way to meet George for dinner. While her Friday preferences were always more carb based i.e. stopping by the Italian place outside of the tube station, George preferred more… refined dishes.

In fact, in preparation for his new goal of training to compete in an Ironman Triathlon in just two years' time, he had adapted a protein heavy, paleo diet. Molly couldn't comprehend what a paleo diet even was, let alone competing in a tournament that required one to swim, cycle and run in one stretch of time.

But, George was all about making goals. Short- and long-term. Small and large. Easily accomplished and verging on impossible. He preached setting up your future, one list of goals at a time. The Ironman was his new, long-term, large, verging on impossible, goal. When he had turned to Molly and asked for hers, she almost choked on the tea she had been drinking.

She couldn't fathom getting groceries for the following week, let alone long-term goals. And ever since Sherlock's confession, her dreams, goals, and entire fucking life had been all out of whack.

She smiled and told George that she just wanted to be happy.

 _Don't we all._

Molly sighed and entered the new restaurant, which according to the sign specialized in vegan, gluten free, and dairy free options. She shuddered.

 _I should have grabbed a kebab on the way over._

Molly spotted George and smiled at his excited wave. She took her jacket off and slid into the seat, giving her boyfriend a grin.

"There you are! It's been such a long three days without you. Please tell me you're feeling much better?" He asked as he handed her a menu.

Molly smiled and nodded. "Not… Perfect. But better." She paused and bit her lip, "As good as I reckon I'll ever be," she added as an afterthought.

George nodded and grabbed her hand from across the table, giving it a small squeeze. "I'm glad. I'm just happy that I can take you on another date."

She blushed and glanced down at the menu, unable to hold George's admiring gaze. "Yes. So am I."

"We should do something fun this week! The pool just reopened at my gym. We could take a swim. Or, maybe go on a nice hike? How does that sound?"

Molly looked down at the menu, her mind overwhelmed with words like quinoa, courgette pasta, and vegan macaroni and cheese. She looked back into George's eyes, the emerald green gazing into her soul. She swallowed.

 _Why would I hike when I can watch Downton Abbey and eat ice cream?_

"You know, I don't know if I'm feeling that well. I should play it safe. Maybe we can just grab dinner at some point?"

George nodded quickly and squeezed her hand. "Yes, of course. How presumptuous of me. That probably works best since Richard and I were going to train. My goal is eight miles this weekend."

Molly practically choked on her water. "That's incredible! I'm sure you and him will have no issue."

"I sure hope so! And if you're free next weekend, Richard and Anne have invited us out on their boat. Anne is an excellent chef. Dinner and drinks on the water should be lovely."

Molly whimpered and nodded. "Yes. Sounds perfect."

 _Assuming I can hold dinner down after my last experience on a boat._

George grinned and waved over the server. He glanced back at Molly. "Have you settled on anything? I'll have the steak and asparagus. I think you'd like the courgette pasta?"

Molly sighed and forced a smile. "Sounds wonderful."

As the server disappeared with their orders, George began to fill Molly in on his week, ranging from his lunch with Mrs. Hudson, to his irritating new intern, to the wonderful Italian leather shoes he had just purchased.

Through this all, Molly only had one thought on her mind.

 _I'm getting kebab on the way home._

Xxx

A few nights later, Molly was sitting in front of the telly, enjoying a bowl of ice cream and an episode of _Downtown Abbey_ with Toby snuggled into her lap. She had finally willed herself to forget at least part of her conversation with Sherlock. At any rate, she had a sexy boyfriend, and once her menses had the right mind to fuck off, she'd show George how much she lov—

 _No. That's not right._

Molly paled and ate another spoonful, considering how she felt about George. How much did she fancy her boyfriend? He was a perfect gentleman. To be quite honest, he was perfect in general.

He was sweet, handsome, financially stable, drama-free, and doted upon Molly like it was nobody's business.

But appreciating his presence, the attention he gave her, and his overall demeanor… Did that translate to love?

Molly set the ice cream down, suddenly feeling queasy as a new thought crossed her mind.

 _If I don't marry George, will I ever find a man? Will I ever have children? Am I going to die alone with Toby II, III, and IV to crap all over my corpse?_

As if sensing her concerns, Toby jumped to one of her chairs and snuggled into a pillow, allowing Molly to lose herself in her thoughts. That was until a knock at the door forced her to abandon the sofa and trot into her hallway.

Upon opening the door, she was met with the fierce blue gaze of none other than Sherlock Holmes. She swallowed and stumbled backwards.

"Molly," he began, "Good evening. How is… your cat?"

Molly blinked and stared at Sherlock. "Toby? Oh, he's great. Had a bit of a messy splinter in his paw the other day, but a trip to the vet cleared that right up. Of course, the wait was awful but I bought him a nice big piece of fish as a treat when we finished."

Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded along with her story, clearly surprised by her verbose response. He looked past her, clearly trying to determine whether George was at the flat. Upon determining that he wasn't, his body relaxed, and his attention focused directly on Molly.

"I'm glad to hear that he's in a good health. May I?" He asked, gesturing to the inside of her flat.

Molly opened her mouth, preparing to decline, but halted at the sight of Sherlock's big, blue eyes. She sighed and nodded, quickly moving to the side.

 _Best to get this over with. We had to discuss it eventually._

Sherlock entered the flat and sat down, flinching as Toby abandoned his spot on the love seat and jumped onto Sherlock's lap. He swallowed and pet the cat, surprised by the calming nature of the beast's fur.

Molly sat at the edge of her sofa, watching Sherlock anxiously. She gnawed on her lip and considered returning to her ice cream, but ultimately decided against it.

 _I'll need it more after he leaves._

Sherlock cleared his throat and smiled politely at Molly. "I spent most of the day on a case. John and I were investigating a series of bomb threats in Hyde Park. Nothing spectacular. Perhaps a five if I'm being generous. But it did take most of the day."

Molly nodded and began playing with her hands. "I'm glad to hear that you two figured it out. How's everyone? I haven't seen anyone in a while."

Sherlock considered the question before responding. "Well, Lestrade has a new girlfriend. I believe they met on that ridiculous dating app, Tinder. Anderson is living with his parents after being evicted from his flat. Not entirely sure why. Wasn't listening. And Donovan is pregnant. She doesn't know yet."

Molly blinked. "Yes, I met Greg's girlfriend at Rosie's party. And Sally is pregnant? How do you know?"

Sherlock practically snorted. "Oh, Molly, come on now. That's child's play. Quite literally considering she is expecting."

"How can you possibly determine if a woman is pregnant after a few hours with her?"

Sherlock shrugged and began to scratch behind Toby's ears. "Quite easily. The same way I can tell that you're menstruating. The way your clothes fit, the way you're sitting, what you're eating… It's easy."

Molly squeaked and pulled a blanket on top of her, suddenly feeling naked under Sherlock's gaze. "You can tell I'm on my period?"

"Yes. Although even John would have figured that out given the ice cream, heating pad and ibuprofen on your counter."

She sighed and began to play with her hair, her eyes shifting between the relaxed cat on Sherlock's lap, and the man himself. "Right, Einstein. Did you deduce who the father was?"

Sherlock quirked his lips. "Oh, Molly, that's where things get juicy. I reckon that even Sally does not know. In fact, I believe it to be…" he paused and looked around, before leaning closer to Molly, "Lestrade."

Molly screamed and jumped out of her seat, her hand coming to her mouth. "No? You can't be serious!"

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. "You're right. I'm not. She's been with the same bloke from Essex since January. I just wanted to see your reaction."

Molly squealed and grabbed her pillow, quickly whacking Sherlock in the arm. Toby hissed and jumped from the warm body, quickly trotting out of the room. Molly gave him a playful glare. "Oh, that was foul, you git! Be careful who you say that to. It's not exactly funny."

Sherlock smirked and shrugged. "I found it funny."

She shook her head and tossed her pillow back, keeping her gaze on Sherlock. She swallowed and took a deep breath.

 _It's now or never. We need to talk about this._

"Sherlock—"

He sat up and immediately interrupted her. "So, how's your brother? He lives where again? Leeds?"

Molly blinked and frowned for a moment, before nodding. "Yeah, he does. He and his wife Ellen just celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary. They had a nice dinner with my mum."

Sherlock noticed her frown. "You dread living so far away from your family. Especially your mother."

Molly frowned and gathered her hair, beginning to braid her long locks. Sherlock watched on, mesmerized.

"I do. I wish I could see her more. But it's so bloody hard with work and the distance," she sighed and tied the end of the braid, "but hopefully one day that won't be the case."

"Would you leave London?" Sherlock asked, his voice softer than expected.

Molly paused and began to play with her blanket. "Oh… I don't know. I've never thought about it. I love my job and this city. It would be hard."

She looked across the room, her eyes settling on a photo of Arthur's Seat that she had captured during her trip to Scotland. Sherlock followed her gaze and looked back at her.

"Perhaps to Scotland?"

Molly couldn't help the small smile that grew on her lips, although she quickly shook her head. "No, I don't reckon so. I love it there and I ache to return someday. Nowhere else in my life have I felt so free. I was able to run about and clear my mind. But I don't think that freedom would do me good in everyday life."

She looked down to her hands and took a deep breath. "I think that trip allowed me to figure out who I was. What I wanted in life. But it's silly, isn't it? That some grassy hills and green landscape can clear our minds, help us figure out what we're missing?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think it's silly," he whispered.

Molly smiled back at him. "Someday I'll go back. Hopefully with my life more in order. A pleasant holiday."

Sherlock nodded and glanced over at the coffee table, his eyes scanning the half empty container of ice cream. He looked back at Molly.

"Have I divulged to you the 'ice cream incident'?"

Molly bit her lip and shook her head. "What is that?"

Sherlock smirked. "Would you like to hear about John and Mary's honeymoon, a lactose intolerance, and the open Irish countryside?"

Molly laughed and nodded, her eyes locked on the man across from her. "This doesn't sound good."

"Oh, for John, not so much. But for us? It's a delightful tale." Sherlock smirked and continued, "It all began as the two rented a car in Dublin and took off for the west coast—"

Molly listened to his story, captivated by the liveliness in his blue eyes, an energy that she hadn't seen in Sherlock for so long. She swallowed and continued to watch, ignoring the beating of her heart and the butterflies in her stomach.

 _I guess this is how we move on._ _We just pretend it never happened._


	16. Flattery and Delicacy

" _One cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty."_

Xxx

About two months passed, in which Sherlock and Molly's relationship returned to relatively normal. Sherlock and John went about cases, frequently using Molly's skillset. Every week or so would bring Sherlock back to St. Bart's, requesting a new body part to experiment on. And occasionally, somehow always on evenings that George was not around, Sherlock would show up at her flat, a tin of Fancy Feast and a carton of triple chocolate ice cream in his arms.

However, unlike before, a tension radiated in the air every time they were together. Between Sherlock's longing glances in her direction (even he could not camouflage those as well as he did in the past—in fact, John had only ever seen him look at cigarettes with the same longing) and Molly going out of her way to avoid even brushing sides with him, something was clearly amiss.

And everyone noticed, too. Although only John and Mycroft were privy to Sherlock's confession, it hadn't taken Sherlock-level deducing to discover the man's feelings. While Mrs. Hudson had been introduced to the possibility of Sherlock being in love with Molly, she hadn't believed it for herself until she witnessed him writing away in his chair, his violin in his arms, a determined look about him.

She knew that look.

It was the look of a man in love.

Upon glancing at the music sheet, and seeing the words "Molly's Waltz", she couldn't help but smile. She never needed confirmation. But oh, the moral dilemma! How could she choose between her dearest Sherlock and her favorite nephew Georgie?

Of course, along with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade noticed the change as well. Whenever Molly stopped by the office (which she only recently began to do again), he couldn't believe Sherlock's change in tone and posture the minute the brunette strutted into the room. She could be discussing a bloody murdered mother of three and Sherlock would gaze at the woman like she created the world.

Lestrade was proud of Sherlock, but equally as concerned.

When Anderson noticed Sherlock's infatuation (it turns out he was still horrible at deducing—he only knew after overhearing John and Lestrade talking about it), he was now certain that his theory on Sherlock's "death" was entirely accurate.

Donovan found out from Anderson and proceeded to vomit into the closest bin. Turned out she was two months pregnant.

And lastly, it was largely accepted within their circle that George also knew of Sherlock's… affections, and preferred to ignore the situation, deciding that Sherlock was not a threat to his happiness.

John wondered if that was true as he sat at the dining table on Baker Street, Rosie sitting on his lap, scribbling away on a sheet of paper with crayons. Sherlock was doing some of his own scribblings, except on a giant map on the wall.

"Oh, that isn't bloody possible. As if a moron like Bill Tuttle could get from Surrey to Brighton in such little time. We're missing something." He turned to John, placing his index fingers together and balancing his chin on the digits, "What are we missing?"

John shrugged and ate a crisp, continuing to bounce Rosie up and down. "Beats me. Maybe the bloke can fly. Or has super speed."

Sherlock growled and turned around, giving John a dirty look. "Can you pretend to be interested?"

John sighed and nodded. "Right. Sorry. Just a bit distracted. That's all."

"Yes. I'm aware. You have a date tomorrow evening."

John blanched. "Sherlock, how could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock waved his hand with an eyeroll. "Would you like the short answer or the long answer?"

John just glared and shoved another crisp in his mouth.

"Lovely. Both. Well, for starters, you shaved for the first time in months. You're nervous eating. I had to sit with you as you tried clothes on at M&S. It's rather obvious."

He turned back to the map. "And of course, you leave your mobile around entirely too much. I saw your Tinder account. You should also know that I included mention of your lactose intolerance—while you have chosen to disregard it, considering your penchant for strawberry ice cream, I rather your dates not learn the hard way."

John growled and tossed a crisp at him. "Oh, fuck off you twit! Do you have any personal boundaries?"

"No. Anyhow, to ease some of your concerns, I graciously accept babysitting Rosie for the evening, as well as telling you the false narrative of 'you'll do great'."

John narrowed his eyes. "Wow, Sherlock, thank you. But no need. I will do just fine. Emma is a widow. She… She understands."

Sherlock momentarily frowned and looked over his shoulder, resting his eyes on his friend. He sighed. "I understand that this is hard for you. That you haven't dated anyone since... At any rate, I don't think you'll do great." Sherlock turned around and gave John a small smile, "I reckon you'll do wonderful."

John couldn't help but laugh. "Thanks for the sincerity, you dick. With your faith, surely we'll be fine."

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. Now. When should I expect Rosie?" he asked, glancing at the happy blonde baby, still scribbling away.

"Oh," John bit his lip and looked at Rosie, before back at Sherlock, "Thanks for offering but Molly is actually going to babysit her. I figured she could use some time with another female."

Sherlock swallowed and gave a curt nod, before making up his mind. "Right. Then what time should I expect Molly and Rosie?"

John couldn't hide the grin that grew on his face. "I reckon 6:30 would do."

"Good."

Sherlock turned back to the map, his eyes darting between each of the spots circled. From behind him, John yawned and continued to munch away on crisps.

"Should we get some food? Pizza, maybe?" John asked, as usual, with a one-track mind.

Sherlock gasped and threw his hands in the air. "That's it! The pizza man who was cycling!"

John blinked and shook his head, deciding that asking for clarification wouldn't even be worth it. At least they could get some food and sleep now.

"Pizza it is."

Xxx

 _Please arrive at Baker Street at 6:30. Dinner will be provided. – SH_

 _Bring an umbrella. It will rain. – SH_

 _Please bring the cat along. – SH_

 _Could you tell John not to wear a fedora on his date? He won't listen to me. – SH_

 _Never mind. Solved the problem. – SH_

 _Any idea why he's angry that I burned his hat in the sink? It was awful. – SH_

Molly glanced at her mobile once more, overwhelmed to see Sherlock returning to his old texting habits. While he still texted her occasionally, he hadn't texted her at this frequency in at least five months. It was almost refreshing to have her Sherlock back.

She shivered and pulled her jacket closer, cautious of Toby's cage in her left arm.

 _He's not your Sherlock. He's just your friend, Sherlock Holmes. The famous detective. It doesn't matter if he's fit with big, blue eyes. He's a dick and you have a nice boyfriend._

Molly sighed and climbed the stairs in 221 Baker Street, her mind on overdrive. When she agreed to watch Rosie so John could go on his date, she was not informed that she would also be babysitting Sherlock. In fact, prior to Sherlock's first text message, the only indication she had received was a short, uninformative text from John.

 _I'm sorry in advance. – JW_

She shook her head and entered the building, climbing the last of the stairs to face the front door of the flat. It would be a pleasant evening, she promised herself, as she knocked on the door.

 _What could go wrong?_

Sherlock opened the door and gave her a small smile. She glanced from his face to his chest, where Rosie was currently strapped against, gnawing away on a teething toy. She squealed at the sight of Molly and threw her toy. Molly couldn't help but laugh.

"Hello, Molly. Hello, cat. Please enter."

Molly walked inside and set Toby's cage down, before quickly sliding out of her shoes and hanging her jacket up. She took Toby out and looked at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

"So. Why did I need to bring Toby?"

Sherlock grinned. "Well, I rather like the cat. Besides, I wanted to see Rosie interact with him." Sherlock pulled Rosie out of her carrier and sat in his seat, placing the young girl on the ground.

Molly raised an eyebrow but sat in John's chair, setting Toby down on the unfamiliar terrain. Rosie glanced at the cat, entranced, before crawling over to the animal. She gently pet his fur, earning a small purr from Toby.

Then, to Molly's surprise and Sherlock's delight, the cat dropped to Rosie's feet, snuggling into her tiny knees. Rosie squealed and sat down, holding the cat close to her.

Molly's mouth dropped open. "He…. He never is that friendly to anyone! Except me."

"And me," Sherlock added, delightfully. "But, it appears that animals, as do humans, have a soft spot for small children."

Molly smiled a bit and nodded. "I just think he likes being held. I've been so busy that I haven't paid him much attention recently," she told him, a sigh escaping her lips as she finished.

"Well, if it's any consolation, cats enjoy being left alone. Kind of like myself. So, don't feel too bad."

She nodded and sat on the ground as well, quickly snapping a few photos of Toby and Rosie. She looked over at Sherlock with a grin. "I'll have to print these. Give one to John. Maybe put one on my fridge."

Sherlock shifted in his seat and nodded. "That's kind of you. I'm sure he would like that."

Molly nodded and watched Toby and Rosie for a few moments, silence filling the room. She glanced over at Sherlock, who was now busily texting away on his mobile.

"So… John. A date. How is he doing?"

Sherlock shrugged and continued to text. "I believe he is doing fine. But. What do I know?"

"A lot, I hope. He is your best mate."

"Indeed. But, he lies on his Tinder profile, so there's little I can do to spare him."

Molly just laughed, practically snorting. "He lies? Define 'lie'."

Sherlock scowled. "Alright, perhaps lie was a bit extreme of a word choice. But he certainly wasn't open about a few things. Such as his height, or his lactose intolerance, or the fact that he spent 800 quid on tickets to see one of the Rolling Stones' many farewell concerts."

She giggled and moved closer to Rosie and Toby, joining Rosie's cautious petting of Toby's fur. She glanced back at Sherlock with an amused grin on her face.

"Well, Sherlock, you don't need to be that open with people when you start dating. Especially on a first date. If he likes this woman, he'll disclose all of that."

Sherlock scowled and crossed his arms. "I'm sure."

Molly frowned. "That's not what this is about."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Yes, Molly?"

She sighed and scooted to the bottom of Sherlock's chair, sitting so her torso lined up with his legs.

 _God, why is he so bloody fit?_

Molly frowned and looked up at the detective. "You're worried about him. About his first time dating after Mary. It's okay to be concerned about him getting hurt."

Sherlock looked to the floor, watching Rosie and Toby play. "I wouldn't have to be worried about him if Mary were still here."

Molly frowned and put her hand on his knee, causing him to quickly glance at her before back at Rosie. "You can't think like that. Right now, all we can do is support John. If he's happy, then we can be happy."

Sherlock frowned and nodded. "He's just… Done so much for me. Helped me through…" He stopped talking, his eyes still locked on Rosie's small form.

Molly swallowed, suddenly feeling her throat tighten, knowing exactly what Sherlock was referring to.

The room became quiet, sans the soft purrs of Toby and Rosie's periodic squeal or giggle. About ten minutes passed before Molly rose to her feet, looking over at Sherlock, who sat with his eyes shut.

She sighed. "Sherlock, you said dinner would be provided?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at Molly. "Yes. I assumed you would be providing it."

Molly groaned and shook her head, mumbling to herself about his nerve. "I assume the fridge has no food?"

"That would be an accurate assumption."

"Splendid. Takeaway it is."

Xxx

Molly and Sherlock sat in front of the telly, rain beating against the windows, as the final moments of _Frozen_ played across the screen. He groaned and shifted, before looking over at Molly, who watched, completely entranced. He groaned.

 _Figures she'd enjoy a load of bollocks like this._

"Is there a reason we're still watching this film after Rosie was put the bed?"

Molly looked over at Sherlock and shook her head. The credits began to roll.

"Because. I'm not going to watch 75 percent of a film and then just to stop. I need to know what happens to Elsa, and if Anna and Kristoff get together, and if the adorable reindeer and snowman show back up."

Sherlock scowled. "I just lost two hours of my life."

Molly sighed and turned the film off. "Well, I'm sorry you didn't like it. I happened to think it was adorable."

"As I would expect. It was exactly your type of film."

"Oh. And how is that?"

"Princesses, magic, true love. That sort of thing."

Molly sighed and hugged her knees to her chest, wondering how much of that was true. "I don't know. Some great fictional characters have ruined the idea of true love for me."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yes. Hans could finish Anna's sentences but was an evil dick. Ken broke up with Barbie. Derek dies in season 11. Don't even get me started on Matthew dying in season 3. And then there's…" she sighed and laughed, looking back over at Sherlock, who watched her with more interest than she expected, "Mr. Darcy, who managed to be the world's biggest prick and the epitome of a gentleman at the same bloody time."

She leaned back, letting her head rest against the top of the chair. She couldn't help but laugh again. "Some guys are just too perfect. They're out of reach. Not real. Then there are the average blokes, who we expect way too much from. Then we have the bloody arseholes who we obsess over,"

Sherlock flinched, seemingly accepting that definition as a knock at him.

"And then we have the good ones, who just die too soon. Or they just up and leave. But where's my Mickey Mouse? Where's my Mr. Bingley? Where's my Mr. Knightley?"

Her eyes welled up, forcing her to take a deep breath before continuing, "You'd think at my age I'd learn to accept that true love is a joke. That soul mates don't exist. Don't you remember questioning my belief in them? Well, you were right. They don't exist."

Sherlock stared at the blank telly, his mind on overdrive, his ears grasping onto every one of her words like it would be the last time he'd hear her voice.

Molly glanced over at Sherlock, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. She covered her mouth and rose to her feet, disgusted with herself for discussing love, and expectations, and hurt, in front of a man who had confessed his feelings to her.

She wandered into the kitchen, scrambling for a glass of water. She took a gulp and held onto the counter, angry at herself for her words, her thoughts, her actions.

 _The what ifs._

Sherlock's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "And George?"

Molly froze, her gaze locked on the half-empty glass of water. "I haven't decided yet. But I reckon I can be happy without true love. I'm running out of time."

"Don't sacrifice your happiness for a societal timeline, Molly Hooper. I asked you if you'd be happy dying right here, right now. And you told me no. And at the top of your list of things you wanted to achieve before death?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, surprised by his own words. "You wanted to be with your soul mate. Don't abandon that dream because you think you have to do something. Don't settle for someone who doesn't deserve you. Someone you don't love."

Molly frowned and looked at Sherlock. He rose to his feet and looked at her one final time.

"I'll be heading to bed now. John should be here momentarily. Have a good evening, Molly."

Sherlock disappeared down the hallway, leaving Molly with eyes full of tears and angry rain attacking the windows.

 _I think I believe in soul mates now. I reckon you're mine._

Xxx

John never learned how the evening transpired. When he arrived at Baker Street, Molly was brief and polite, but clearly distant. Sherlock had disappeared to his room.

To be frank, John didn't really care. He met a beautiful woman, shared a kiss, and his daughter was sound asleep, ready to go home.

He considered speaking to Sherlock, but ultimately decided against it. He could tell that something happened.

At any rate, he was bloody tired.

And so, he and Rosie departed Baker Street, leaving Sherlock alone to wallow in his own thoughts.

 _Sherlock's like a cat. He enjoys the solitude._

But John was starting to believe that was no longer true.


	17. Concealment and Opportunity

" _It sometimes is a disadvantage to be so very guarded."_

Xxx

"A dinner party?" Molly asked, clearly surprised by his comment.

"Yes! I think it would be a wonderful opportunity for us. You can get used to my flat, and it will give our friends and colleagues a chance to get to know each other," George replied, before placing a soft kiss on her hand.

The couple was currently taking a walk about the city, after having lunch at a fancy salad place that George's nutritionist had recommended. Although lunch wasn't exactly filling, Molly was pleased by the weather and the attention of her boyfriend.

She thought over his words before turning back to him. "I've never thrown a party like that before. I'm not a terribly good cook."

He laughed. "Oh, darling, we'd hire caterers. Please, I think it would be a perfect opportunity as we prepare for our future."

Molly blushed and focused on her boyfriend. He gave her a soft smile and squeezed her hand. "Our future?" She asked, rather unsure of his meaning.

George grinned. "We have a lot to plan for, wouldn't you say?"

Molly gulped and nodded. "Yes. Of course."

"So, shall we have one?"

She nodded and smiled. "Yes. I think it's a lovely idea."

They continued their walk, George rattling off names of people he wanted to invite, as Molly considered her own, much smaller guest list.

The thought of Sherlock at a fancy dinner party almost had her snorting aloud. But she would invite him.

 _He's my friend._

Xxx

Sherlock dug his chin into his hand, his eyes practically drilling a hole into the chess board. He let out an angry snarl, not bothering to look at his opponent.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and moved one of his pieces, his eyes watching his younger brother, rather amused. "Dearest Sherlock, perhaps if you'd focus on your own strategy instead of trying to deduce mine, you may actually have a chance at winning a game."

His younger brother growled and turned away from the board, indicating his abandonment of the game. He crossed his arms, ever like a petulant child.

Mycroft sighed and stood up, moving to pour himself a fresh cup of tea. "So, how would you say our afternoon of bonding is fairing?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and finally looked at Mycroft. "Bonding? I thought you were testing a new form of torture for your criminals of the state."

Mycroft forced a pleasant smile. "No, brother mine, we were catching up. I thought we could discuss our lives. I would be happy to start. Anthea is going to move in with me. She has decided to renovate, and just found a lovely antique tub to put in the—"

Sherlock made a noise, as if being strangled, and began to hit his head against the wall. "STOP! What did I do to deserve this?"

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "Must you always act like a child? Did it ever occur to you that I might be interested in your life? That maybe I'd like to speak to you outside of getting you out of trouble?"

Sherlock mumbled to himself and looked back over at his brother. He dropped his shoulders and simply nodded. "If you must know, you may ask."

"Very well. You and the Doctor? Have you two entered a relationship?"

Sherlock made a face of disgust. "Are you asking if I'm dating Watson?"

Mycroft sighed and rubbed at his temples. "No, you blithering idiot, Dr. Hooper. Have you made any strides?"

Sherlock crossed his arms and collapsed into his chair, purposely looking away from his brother. "Define making strides."

"Are you romantically involved?"

"Not quite."

"I thought you had, as so eloquently put, 'a plan'?"

"I do."

Mycroft groaned. "Which is what, exactly?"

Sherlock sat up and glared at his brother. "If you must know, my plan is simple. I'm going to make her happy. I will accept any role I can in her life, whether that is as a friend or a lover," he sighed and considered his words, before adding, "I don't deserve her. And I know that. So, can I truly push to have her return my feelings? It isn't just."

He rose to his feet and looked back at Mycroft. "Yes, it will hurt me dearly if I cannot be with her. But it would hurt me more to see her unhappy. So, at the present, as long as I can spend time with a happy Molly, then I can be in good spirits."

Mycroft grabbed his umbrella and gave Sherlock a soft smile. "Why, brother, that may be the most mature and insightful comment I've ever heard you say."

"Oh, piss off Mycroft. You mustn't carry an umbrella around with you all the time."

Mycroft nodded and went towards the door. "Oh, Sherlock, you will pay for that."

He scoffed. "Your threats are empty, dear brother."

"I wouldn't be so confident if I were you, Sherlock. I happen to know two people who are waiting patiently to see you."

Sherlock paled. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, I must certainly would."

With that, Mycroft offered his brother one final smirk before disappearing out the door, leaving Sherlock to fume.

Xxx

It had been almost a fortnight since the babysitting incident, and John had seen Sherlock sparingly since then. Finally, now stopping by, he sat in his old chair, munching away on a bag of M&Ms, flipping through the newspaper. Across from him, Sherlock studied his friend, his fingers framing his nose, his thumbs resting under his chin. John noticed the attention on him and looked away from the newspaper, giving Sherlock a curious look.

"What? Did you want some?"

Sherlock dropped his hands and sat up. "You had intercourse yesterday evening."

John coughed on the candies in his mouth, before taking a desperate sip of water. "Jesus, Sherlock, you mind?"

He shrugged. "Do I mind that you had intercourse? No. On the contrary, it appears that you're in better spirits, so I support the endeavor. Assuming you don't give me another godchild. I do like Rosie, but I can't guarantee that I would like another one of your offspring."

John narrowed his eyes. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

"So. Was this the girl you went on a date with?"

John actually blushed. "No, uh, it wasn't. Emma was wonderful but we just didn't… click."

"Then who did you have intercourse with?"

"Can you not call it that, Sherlock?"

"Fine. Who did you engage in coitus with?"

John threw a handful of candies at his friend. The two men stared at each other as the hard pieces hit the wooden floor.

"I met her…" He groaned and blushed again, "This may sound awful but… She's Rosie's pediatrician. Her name is Jane."

Sherlock picked an M&M that had landed in his lap and ate it. He looked at John. "That's a relief. Presumably she'll be better with birth control then. No additional spawn for you."

John scowled. "And no spawn for you, ever, you git."

Sherlock stroked his chin and considered the implication. "You know, recently the prospect of having a child in the future has become more… Appealing."

John nearly choked on his water. "Come again? You want a kid?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's not what I said. In the past, I would have never considered having offspring. But, now… I don't know. It may be a possibility in the future."

"And why is that?"

"Well, I shouldn't let my superior genetics go to waste, should I?"

John gave him a dirty look. Sherlock sighed.

"Admittedly, the prospect of Molly mothering my child seems… tempting."

John watched Sherlock, not as surprised by as his friend's words as he expected to be. He gave Sherlock a small smile. "That's actually… Sweet. I didn't know you could be sweet."

"My mummy called me Sweetie until I turned 13."

John rolled his eyes. "How are you and Molly?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and considered the question. "I am salvaging my friendship with her."

"And then?"

Sherlock smiled sadly. "I hope for the best. I cannot make someone fall in love with me, can I?"

John sighed and patted his friends shoulder. "No, Sherlock, you can't. But I've seen you do the impossible. Solve unsolvable crimes, take down a criminal mastermind, cheat death…" He smiled and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, "but perhaps the most remarkable thing about you is that you don't know that the Earth circles the sun."

Sherlock growled and shoved John, leading to a very childish altercation with M&Ms and Rosie's discarded teething toys.

 _And Mycroft talks about my maturity!_

Xxx

Molly glanced at her mobile once more, verifying that she wasn't receiving an onslaught of text messages from Sherlock asking about her delayed presence. That morning, completely out of the blue, Sherlock had texted her inviting her over to Baker Street for tea, later that afternoon. His context was to catch up with Mrs. Hudson, but she figured that he wanted assistance with either a case or an experiment.

While she normally would have jumped at the opportunity to not only see Sherlock, but also the friendly landlord, she already had plans for coffee with George after getting off work. But, instead of doing the intelligent thing and declining the offer, she agreed, instead running from one side of town to the other.

Coffee with George was pleasant, and yet another reminder of how amazing her boyfriend was, especially when he gifted her a beautiful pair of diamond earrings. He told her that the sparkling pair would look lovely on the night of their dinner party, and Molly certainly agreed.

And oh, the dinner party! Its planning had absolutely consumed the past two weeks, and now, its date was only a week away, leaving Molly on a mad dash to find a dress, and calm herself down. Of course, George had thrown and been to gatherings like this, and was much more attuned to hiring staff.

 _Caters, bartenders, waiters… What is this?_

Yet, all the preparation seemed to be the easy part. Now, Molly had the task of inviting the last person on her list. Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker Street.

She had posted everyone else's invitations a week ago, on lovely, quite fancy (and expensive) card stock, promising an evening of wonderful conversation, delicious food, and loads of fun. But Sherlock… She felt compelled to hand deliver the invitation, and to almost talk the man through it.

A part of her feared that he wouldn't go. She had specifically asked John, Greg, and even Mrs. Hudson to refrain from mentioning the event, but tonight would finally be the evening that she would breach the topic.

So, with a deep breath, she knocked on the door, holding a takeaway bag with a tiny Victoria Sponge cake for Sherlock within. It took only a moment for Sherlock to open the door and move back into the flat, his eyes on Molly as she entered.

"You're late." He put plainly, his hands on his hips, showing his irritation.

Molly rolled her eyes and slipped out of her jacket. "I had a date with George," she handed him the bag with a smile, "But consider this my apology."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but opened the bag, displaying what appeared to be almost a smile when he discovered the cake. He put it to the side and looked at Molly.

"Thank you. That was kind of you."

Molly nodded and took a deep breath, before pulling the envelope out of her handbag. She held it out for Sherlock, nibbling on her lip.

"This is also for you."

Sherlock looked at the invitation and sat down, leaving it in her hand. He began to unpackage the cake.

"I presume that is an invitation for your dinner party."

Molly practically squeaked. "How…?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How any of you think that you could hide something from me is humorous. I saw the catering quotes on your desk at work. I was forced to help John find a new tux since his is now too small. I'm also aware that he had to seek out a third-party babysitter on the night of the 25th, which is clearly bizarre given how many friends he has who could watch the child."

Sherlock took a bite of the cake and continued to watch Molly. "Clearly it isn't a funeral, given the time taken in advance, and it is also not a wedding, as you're not wearing a ring. It could be a birthday party, but since both yours and George's has passed, the most likely event is a dinner party."

Molly just sighed and dropped the envelope beside him, before sitting in John's chair. She watched him, both annoyed yet amused.

"Well, you figured it out Mr. Consulting Detective. But weren't you curious why you weren't invited?"

That got him to look up. He took another bite, watching Molly carefully.

"Not particularly. I just assumed that I wasn't invited because you didn't want me there. Either because of my normal behavior at social gatherings or because of what has… transpired between us in the past."

Molly frowned and wrapped her arms around herself. She shook her head. "You're my friend, Sherlock. I want you to come."

"Do you really now?" he asked with a laugh, "because at most parties I tend to be… unbecoming."

Molly sighed and gave him a look. "That's not entirely true."

He practically smirked. "My Christmas party? John's wedding? Rosie's first birthday? Shall I continue?"

She rubbed her temples. "Okay. So, your record isn't fantastic but… This is more your speed, I reckon. Wine, classical music…"

"Perhaps, but a room full of exquisitely dressed tossers are not."

She frowned and gave him a look. "It would mean a lot to me if you'd come. George and I are really excited for all of our friends to meet."

Sherlock crossed his arms and stared forward, knowing that a fight would be futile as John would obviously make him go. Nonetheless, he could admit that he enjoyed Molly's insistence, knowing that she did in fact want him there.

Because for a while, he truly believed she didn't.

 _I wouldn't want me there._

He sighed and nodded. "Fine. I will give it ample consideration."

She groaned. "Sherlock! You're coming and that's final."

He cursed and rose to his feet. "We're through with this conversation. Now, please follow me into the kitchen. I need you to look at the eyeballs you gave me a week ago."

She groaned and shook her head.

 _I knew it. Always an ulterior motive._

But as usual, she followed him, never able to tell the man no.

 _Except you have._

 _You told him no._

 _But you always forget that, don't you, Molly?_

 _Why?_


	18. In Possession of a Good Fortune

" _Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind."_

Xxx

Seven bottles of champagne?

 _Check._

Room for the egregious amount of desserts and cheap wine expected as gifts?

 _Check._

A darling dress that screamed class and dignity?

 _Check._

Three shots of vodka to even open the door to the first guest?

 _Check, check, check (and another check for good measure)._

Molly dropped the shot glass in the sink and groaned. She looked around the unfamiliar kitchen, which had three caterers furiously prepping away endless hors d'oeuvres for her pending guests, and sighed. George was eager to show off his lovely new flat, which boasted 200sq meters of gorgeous open windows, a renovated kitchen, three bedrooms, and an American style walk-in closet.

She reached into the sink and grabbed the shot glass, filling it up once more. She downed it and shivered, wondering what in the actual fuck she had gotten herself into.

 _Throw a dinner party! Let's have our mates mingle! You're a bloody moron, Molly Hooper._

Molly groaned and wandered into the bathroom, glancing into the mirror to doublecheck her appearance. She had gone to the hairstylist earlier in the day, and was now sporting a freshly cut and highlighted do. She was quite made up too, finally wearing her favorite lipstick that she scarcely wore, and her ears were decorated with the lovely pair of earrings that George had gifted her with a week prior.

And the dress! She looked down at her body, once again questioning if she felt comfortable wearing it. It was elegant, stunning, and screamed refined beauty, all things Molly rarely felt. Yet, that black ensemble, hugging her curves like it was made for her, put a smile on her face.

With one final deep breath, she walked into the sitting room, where George was chatting with their first guest, a man called Oliver, who worked in finance at George's firm. George had told Molly that he was quite the arse kisser, so she wasn't surprised that he was the first to show up.

Deciding that the two men would be fine chatting about football, or work, or whatever men discussed, she ventured back into the kitchen, eager to help the staff in any way she could. But, at the sight of the food on the plates, she halted. How much money was her boyfriend spending on this dinner? She sighed and grabbed a lobster crostini off the tray, deciding that she absolutely, truly, one-hundred percent, did not want to know.

 _I still shop off the clearance rack at Primark._

Xxx

Sherlock sighed and trudged behind John, fiddling with the sleeves of his suit. He fussed with his curls before hurrying to stand beside his best mate, a clear look of distaste on his face. John noticed and rolled his eyes.

"So help me Sherlock, you better behave. You understand me? No rude remarks about his flat, or his food, or anything. And certainly no fighting or doing something else rash."

Sherlock scoffed. "When have I ever been rash?"

"Well, you did kiss her."

Sherlock scowled and kept walking, shoving his hands into his jacket, still irritated by the stiffness of his suit jacket. He glanced over at John, who was also dressed in his finest suit, sporting a smile that indicated he was happy to be spending the evening with only adults.

"I really would prefer that we didn't go to this."

John rolled his eyes again. "You told me that you were trying to salvage your friendship with Molly. In order to do that, you have to do things that friends would. Such as attend a dinner party."

"Yes but… His crowd will be there. You know, The City, Knickers-in-a-Twist type. Discussing investments and holidays in Bali."

John snorted. "I reckon I rather listen to that then you discuss the effects of alcohol on muscle dexterity in fingers or hear you recite the periodic table."

Sherlock began to walk faster, knowing that John's short limbs would force to man to jog to keep up. "At any rate, this will not be enjoyable. Molly's boyfriend overcompensates for his glaring lack of masculinity by spending exorbitant amounts of money. That will be abundantly clear this evening."

John glared at Sherlock, knowing his best mate was walking faster to force him to run. He jogged up to Sherlock and groaned. "Who cares? Our friends will be there. Aside from Molly, I know Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are attending. So, lighten up. Eat some shrimp cocktail and at least pretend to have a good time."

Sherlock began to walk faster. "Oh, John, you silly man. I always have a good time."

John stopped jogging and cursed, sensing that the evening was not to go well.

 _Lord help us now._

Xxx

Molly was in a tizzy. Every time she turned around, she was being introduced to one of George's co-workers, or running buddies, or sailing mates, or University friends. As she smiled and bid a temporary farewell to a bloke he ran the Manchester Marathon with, she grabbed a glass of champagne and downed as much as possible, not knowing the next time she'd have a chance to take a deep breath.

 _He's only been in London for a few months! How can he possibly have so many friends?_

Molly groaned and looked around the room, mentally counting the guests that she had invited. There was Meena and her boyfriend, Mike Stamford and his wife, two of her University friends, another two doctors from the lab, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and his newest girlfriend, and… That was is.

She finished the glass, forcing herself not to obsess over the ridiculous ratio of his guest to hers. Or Sherlock's absence.

 _He said he'd come._

She sighed and moved into the kitchen, deciding she should check up on the catering, when Lestrade swooped in and smiled at his hostess.

"Well look at you! You look absolute lovely," he complimented, before giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "This place is unbelievable! So, you two are living here now?"

Molly swallowed and quickly glanced over at George, who was enjoying a hearty laugh with a few co-workers. "No, actually, I'm still at my flat. We haven't… Decided what our living arrangements will be."

Lestrade nodded, seemingly in understanding. "Well, it's a nice place. In a nice area too."

Molly smiled softly and nodded. "I do like it but…"

"It's not home?" He asked, his eyes watching her curiously.

"No. I reckon it isn't."

Lestrade cleared his throat and grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. He took a sip, and looked at Molly, clearly wanting to ask something but having the good graces not to.

"How's your girlfriend?" Molly asked instead, motioning to the redhead who was chatting with one of her University friends, "Charlotte, was it?"

"Oh, she's great," Lestrade replied, also looking in Charlotte's direction, a grin plastered across his face. Molly almost whimpered at the sincerity.

"Do you… See marriage in the future?"

Lestrade laughed. "Well, maybe. After the last one failed… It's hard to think that far ahead. Especially over something that permanent."

Molly frowned and nodded, glancing back over at George, who now was chatting with her own boss, Mike. She looked back over at Lestrade and opened to mouth to ask a follow-up question, when the doors to the flat opened, and in strutted Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, all decked out in their finest wear.

At the sight of Sherlock in a deliciously sleek black tux and tousled curls, she practically moaned. Lestrade glanced over at his friend and couldn't help but smile.

 _When will these two morons wake up?_

Lestrade nudged Molly and smiled. "I should get back to Charlotte. We'll chat later." With that, he disappeared across the room, leaving Molly to take another shuddering gulp of champagne and watch Sherlock and John whisper conspicuously in the corner of the flat.

John glared at Sherlock and held up the bottle of wine, nudging his friend in the direction of Molly. "Give this to her. Tell her the party is grand, and that she looks nice."

Sherlock scowled and crossed his arms. "I rather not. Can't we have a shrimp cocktail and go? I'll even comprise and have a salmon cucumber cup as well."

John practically growled before shoving Sherlock forward, and rushing across the room, deciding now was a better time than ever to discuss the weather with Lestrade and his girlfriend.

Sherlock sighed and gripped the bottle, crossing the flat until he stood in front of Molly. His eyes met her own, before not so graciously traveling down her body.

 _Oh, for the love of God._

He swallowed, taking in her black dress, its materials hugging her curves, her shapely legs flowing into a pair of spikey black heels. And her hair just hugged her face, and made those gorgeous pink lips even more kissable than they normally were.

 _I need a drink._

Molly smiled softly and dropped her eyes to the bottle. She reached out for it. "I presume this is for us?" She asked, her eyes locked on Sherlock's blue orbs.

"Us?" was all he managed out.

Molly gnawed on her lip and glanced over at George, who like a common slag, was circling the room. Sherlock followed her gaze and swallowed.

"Right. Yes. This is for you and the accountant. From John."

"And not you?" Molly asked, taking the bottle from Sherlock.

"No. I would have gotten you something more useful. Like rat poison. This area is notorious for rodents."

Molly couldn't help but laugh as she put the bottle with the other alcohol. Sherlock watched, mesmerized.

"It appears that wine is the socially acceptable gift for this sort of function. But nobody wants to spend more than thirty quid on the gift. So, tell me, what does one do with that much cheap wine? Surely Georgie won't be serving that to one of his yachting mates?" Sherlock asked, his eyes boring into Molly's.

At the question, Molly couldn't help but look away, her cheeks turning red under his gaze. "No. He will not be. I can't speak for George but… When I'm presented with cheap wine, I drink it."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "I—"

His words drifted off as George and an unknown couple joined his conversation, all smiles and artificially brightened teeth. He cleared his throat and kept his eyes locked on Molly, who appeared uncomfortable by their presence. George smiled and placed his hand on the small of her back, moving towards his friends.

"Molly, you remember my boss, Patrick, and his wife, Eleanor?" George grinned and waved his hand towards the couple, both pumped full of anti-depressants and Botox.

Sherlock watched on, intrigued.

 _Six affairs within the past two years between the two of them. Impressive. Does she know he's laundering money from the company?_

Molly nodded and smiled, graciously greeting the couple with hugs, kisses and handshakes. "It's a pleasure to see you two again. I hope you're having a great time. Dinner will be served soon! I would—"

As she babbled on, Sherlock slipped away, looking for a place to camouflage himself. John was stuffing his face with hors d'oeuvres, Mrs. Hudson was speaking to who appeared to be her sister, and Lestrade and his girlfriend were speaking so intently that Sherlock wondered if they'd start snogging in front of the entire bloody party.

Sherlock shook his head and moved away from the hordes of people, and down the hall into the rest of the flat. Along the walls were three doors, and Sherlock expertly opened the door to the master bedroom, stepping inside of George's most personal space.

Disregarding whatever Mind Palace John advised him of, Sherlock slipped into the room, looking around the very cold space, absent of really any true personal touches. It looked straight out of a catalogue, and exactly the type of sleeping quarters Sherlock would expect from a man like George.

He quickly shuffled through the room, occasionally peeking into a closet, or a set of drawers, or a brief case. Per usual, he found nothing incriminating on the man. It was beyond boring and verging on frustrating.

Growing tired of his snooping, Sherlock moved towards the door, until he noticed a lopsided portrait of the London Bridge on the wall. He hurried over and took it down, unsurprised to find a high-quality safe behind it. Sherlock grew giddy, like a child, wandering what type of weapons or drugs or incriminating notices he'd find within the safe.

Quickly plugging in the postal code (given the expensive area they were in and knowing it was one that a man like George would obsess over), he watched in glee as the safe popped open.

But, as his eyes met the inside of the metal box, his stomach plummeted.

Because inside was nothing terribly remarkable. A birth certificate. His passport. A real Rolex. A stack of approximately two-thousand pounds. And a tiny, black velvet box.

Sherlock reached in and wrapped his hands around the box, feeling his body begin to shake. With a shuddering breath, he opened it, his eyes meeting a small ring, with a six-carat diamond decorating the center.

He shut the box and returned it to the safe, quickly shutting the box and placing the photo back on the wall. He moved out of George's room and made his way back towards the party.

 _I need a drink._

Xxx

Dinner had been a lovely affair. The lamb was succulent, the potatoes were perfectly roasted, and the dessert was spectacular. Molly knew her guests were having a great time. Everyone had happily chatted and eaten away. Except for one person.

Molly wasn't particularly surprised that Sherlock looked miserable at the table. She had gone out of her way to seat him next to people he'd actually speak to, namely John and Greg, but even then, he looked put off. So, when the detective sulked off to the balcony, Molly followed.

John watched Molly follow Sherlock and inwardly cursed. He recognized how miserable his best mate was at the dinner table, but he was unsure if that unhappiness had to do with the amount of people around them, or being forced to watch Molly and George play host and hostess. At any rate, John moved towards the balcony, hoping he wouldn't have to begin damage control.

As he stepped forward, a polite tap stopped him. He turned, encountering a smiling George.

"Well, hello John! How have you been? I haven't seen you since our match!" George announced, per usual, smiling.

John nodded, his eyes glancing between the friendly host and the balcony doors. "Yeah, it has been awhile. I've been awfully busy with work and Rosie."

 _And Sherlock._

George nodded and smiled. "Oh, I get it! I'm knackered too. I just got another promotion, actually. This move to London has been the best decision of my life."

"Congrats, mate. That's wonderful. We're glad to have you here."

"I'm happy to be here! Between the work, and the city, and Molly, it's been a dream." George grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing server and took a sip, smiling at John. "In fact, I've decided that I'm going to ask Molly to marry me."

John felt the color drain from his face, but immediately forced a grin at the sight of George's excited features. He coughed and patted his friend on the back, giving him the biggest grin he could muster at the surprising news. "Wow! That's… Wow! Are you sure?"

"Completely. I love her. She's… Perfect. Don't you agree?"

John nodded weakly, his eyes again drifting towards the balcony door. George sipped his drink and looked around, before settling back on John.

"Do you mind if I ask you something? You know, man to man?" George asked, his tone shifting ever so slightly.

John swallowed and nodded, grabbing a glass for himself when the waiter came back around. "Sure. What's up?"

"Well, it's your mate, Sherlock. I just want to make sure that he's not going to… Pose any issue. My Aunt keeps telling me that he's just an odd duck, but part of me thinks he has a thing for Molly."

John groaned and took a large gulp of champagne, forcing himself to keep his gaze steady on George. "Sherlock? Oh, no, don't worry about Sherlock! He's just Molly's good friend. Nothing more."

George laughed and nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "You're probably right. It was silly of me to think otherwise. I can't imagine that man romancing a woman."

John snorted and sipped his drink. "Right you are George, right you are."

George grinned and waved to another colleague. He looked back at John and gave him a smile. "Well, I need to make my rounds. Thanks for coming, yeah?"

John forced a grin. "Of course. Thanks for having me."

George hurried off, quickly enveloped in another group of wealthy men. John downed the rest of his glass and dropped to a chair, cursing as his arse met the leather.

 _This is bad._

Xxx

 _This is bad._

Sherlock shut his eyes, his arms propping himself up on the balcony encasement, his body enjoying the light chill of the London evening. He took another shuddering breath, trying to figure out what to do next. Was he playing his cards right? Should he be making romantic gestures for Molly? Seducing her? Making her see George's inadequacies?

He cursed and shook his head. _No_ , he thought, _she needs to decide that she doesn't love him on her own_.

 _But what if she does?_

Sherlock growled and stood back up, beginning to pace the perimeter of the balcony. He had no idea what to do. He didn't know if he was supposed to fight for Molly, or to be her friend and remind her that he was around. And by god, it was making him sick to watch her prance around with that possessive, materialistic, ladder-climbing oaf!

He pulled at his curls and froze as the doors opened. Most people had avoided walking onto the balcony, given the chilly city evening, but never Molly. She spent most of her life in a freezing cold morgue.

Sherlock turned to face her, his features softening at the sight of her beautiful, smiling face.

 _This is bad._

"Are you having fun?" She asked, before moving to stand by the balcony edge, propping her arms up the same way Sherlock had only a moment previously. She took in the view of the city, her cheeks turning a pleasant shade of red from the wind and the excitement of the evening.

Sherlock swallowed. "Not particularly."

Molly sighed and turned to face him. "I didn't think so. Why not? I know you like food. And alcohol. And you've been able to speak to John and Greg. Doesn't that make it at least slightly enjoyable?"

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. "I'm afraid not. As much as I enjoy lamb and endless champagne, I did have to sit through Douglas Erickson discuss his home in Malaga, and Sofia Langston's son at Eton, and Wendall Wright's new vaguely royal wife. Not to mention, I had to endure what they didn't say. Like Patrick Lucas's affair with the lady from IT. And the fellow who boasted about the flat in Kensington? He was fired a week ago. Richard Burton? He knocked up his secretary."

Sherlock sighed and leaned against the balcony, shutting his eyes for only a moment. Molly watched him intently, frowning ever so slightly. She touched his arm.

"I know you don't like outings with other people but—"

Sherlock shook his head and looked at Molly. "That's simply not true. I rather enjoy having a slice of cake with you, and John, and Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and hell, even Mycroft! But what I don't enjoy are the blood-sucking ladder-climbing prats that this party is filled with."

Molly frowned and dropped her hand from his arm, bringing them to wrap around her own body. She looked away. "They're not all like that. George has some really nice sailing mates. When we took his boat out—"

Sherlock snorted and looked at Molly. "Sailing? You get motion sickness in a car, let alone a boat. What's next? You're going on runs with him?"

Molly cleared her throat and turned away. Sherlock couldn't help but frown.

"I hope you realize what type of environment you're entering, Molly. These are the type of people that suck you in and spit you out. And while you're strong, I don't reckon you have the type of backbone for this sort of thing."

Molly frowned and looked at the London view, her stomach in knots. "George isn't like them. He's kind. Down to earth. I can't fault him for his friends or his co-workers."

"Maybe so," Sherlock whispered, "But you can fault him for expecting you to be like them. And as a result, like him."

Molly didn't say anything to that, and instead continued leaning against the balcony, looking at the city lights. Sherlock followed suit, allowing the couple to stand in silence, sans the sounds of the city and the party within.

Finally, Sherlock took a deep breath, but kept his eyes locked on the city below.

"Molly, I… I probably shouldn't share this but… He's going to propose to you. I… Deduced it."

Molly tensed, and looked over at Sherlock, who refused to meet her gaze. She swallowed and croaked out, "What?"

He took another breath. "You know, before I met you, along with John and the others, I cared about no one. At times, not even myself. That was evident by my rampant drug use. But in the years since then, so much has changed. I have friends, a job I love, and if I dare say so, a reason to wake up every morning."

He stepped away from the edge and looked at Molly, his eyes red with anger, and sadness, and desperation, and desire, and every emotion he could never communicate verbally.

"All I want in the world is for you to be happy, Molly Hooper. And if your happiness is marrying George, then… Please do it," he paused and glanced at the ground, before back into her chocolate eyes, "It would break my heart. It would devastate me. But it would perhaps hurt more to see you unhappy and not with the man that you love."

He ran a shaking hand through his curls and looked back at view of the city. "Mycroft used to tell me that sentiment was the chemical defect found in the losing side. I've already accepted defeat in that regard. Seeing you marry him would be another, devastating loss, but one that I could live with, should it be what makes you happy."

Sherlock took a step away and looked back at Molly. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it, ignoring the burning in his eyes. He met hers and swallowed, surprised to see her own gaze glossy. Unable to help himself, he pressed a chaste kiss to her lips before disappearing back into the party.

Molly stumbled backwards and leaned against the wall of the building, unable to stop the tears that cascaded down her cheeks.

 _This is bad._

Xxx

John only had a moment to run after Sherlock after watching the detective's determined dash to leave the party. He ran after him, both of their coats in tow, already gasping for air. He wanted to blame the tight suit for his difficulties running, but he knew all the chips and strawberry ice cream was to blame.

He made it about a block following Sherlock, before stopping with a loud "SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock finally stopped and turned to look at John, his cheeks red from exertion. "He's going to propose to her."

"I know."

Sherlock shook his head and pulled at his curls, ignoring the wetness of his eyes. "How can I compete with that? How can I give her that sort of life? He'll come home every night at 7 sharp, cook her dinner, tell her he loves her. They'll spend the weekends on the water, taking the kids to seeing the bloody Channel in his yacht. They'll host dinner parties galore, climbing their way up the ladder until they're bloody rubbing shoulders with William and Kate. And me?"

He let out a desperate laugh. "I'll disappear frequently, unable to contact her while away on cases. My fridge will be filled with brains and fingers, not freshly prepared dinners. Our idea of a date night will be chips and a science journal. She'll grow to resent me. To hate me. And then she'll leave."

He let out an angry cry and ran his hands up and down his face, before finally glimpsing on John, who looked surprised by the outburst. "So, tell me John, how do I compete with him?"

"Stop it!" John finally yelled, tossing Sherlock his jacket in the process. "If you love Molly, and you know her, as you claim to, then you know damn well that she doesn't want any of that bollocks! She doesn't care if she's wearing designer clothes, or eating bloody steak tartare for dinner. She wears jumpers with cherries on them for Christ sakes!"

John cursed and put his hand on his friend's shoulder, meeting his blue gaze. "You compete with him just fine Sherlock. Just by being yourself. Because you're bloody weird, just like she is. Get your shit together and be her friend. Show her what she'd be missing by marrying a bloke like that."

Sherlock frowned and looked away. "You truly believe that?"

John shrugged. "Yes. I do. For someone who sure likes to deduce, you clearly weren't paying attention tonight."

Sherlock made a face. "Excuse me?"

"You see but you do not observe!" John mocked, in his best Sherlock voice.

His best mate growled.

John laughed but returned to his look of concern. "She looked miserable. You think she gave two fucks about meeting George's sailing mates, or who he's training to do an Iron Man with, or the fucking IT technician at his office? No. She looked like she was having as bad of a time as you were."

Sherlock frowned and began to walk again. "I told her that I would accept her marrying him. If it made her happy."

"That's all you can do, Sherlock. Because in the end, if you love her, and he makes her happy, you'll have to let her go."

"I know." Was all Sherlock replied with.

The two friends began their journey home, in a somber silence, only the noise of the city to drown out their thoughts.

 _This is bad._

Xxx

 _The warm sunlight funneled into the church, illuminating the grand hall with delightful rays of happiness and expectation for the day. The seats were filled with guests, positively beaming with excitement for the pending ceremonies. The pews had been adorned with daises and yellow ribbon, a hint to the sunniness of the beautiful bride, a woman who he cared for most deeply._

 _And Sherlock was excited, to say the least. He never expected to be so giddy about a wedding. John and Mary's had almost been the death of him, from having to prepare the Best Man's speech, to composing their Waltz, to solving a murder… It had been a long, tiresome affair._

 _But an experience he appreciated nonetheless._

 _Now, the big day had come, and John Watson looked delightful, standing to the side of the platform, grinning like any Best Man should, ready to guide his closest friend into Holy Matrimony. And within the seats, Sherlock could see his wonderful friends smiling back—Mrs. Hudson, in an extremely large hat, holding a giddy Rosie on her lap, Lestrade, attached to an unknown redhead, and even Mycroft and Anthea, who looked peaceful._

 _And as the music began, a gorgeous piece on violin, a song that Sherlock himself had composed for Molly, he knew that today would be a splendid day._

 _She appeared at the back of the church, holding her brother Thomas' arm, practically glowing in a gorgeous white gown that was positively made for her. The siblings made their descent along the aisle, Thomas holding back tears, and Molly just grinning, excited for what laid ahead._

 _Sherlock took a deep breath and adjusted his tie, preparing to gaze into Molly's gorgeous, chocolate eyes. The same gaze that had comforted him through so much. Through Moriarty, and his two-year absence, and Mary's death, and his relapse, and everything in between…_

 _Oh, how he loved her._

 _But as she reached the smiling Priest, a thought occurred to Sherlock._

 _If I'm the one marrying her, he thought, then why am I standing outside, watching through the window?_

 _His eyes drifted from Molly's smiling form to her left, where George stood, grinning like he was the happiest man in the world._

 _And he ought to be, considering he was standing in Sherlock's spot._

 _Sherlock watched in despair, from outside the church, as the nuptials began, and all the people that Sherlock cared about most deeply assisted the wedding. From Rosie being led down the aisle with the rings and flowers by Mrs. Hudson, to John's comforting grin to George in the middle of the vows, to Molly's bright, cheerful form, absolutely brimming with happiness on her wedding day._

 _As just as the ceremony began, Sherlock let out a howl of pain, as the two exchanged "I dos" and a passionate kiss._

 _He slammed his fists against the windows of the church, falling back as a force shook him to the ground. When he finally rose to his feet, he was no longer standing outside of a church in London, but instead inside an extraordinarily expensive flat, somewhere within the city._

 _Sherlock flattened himself against the wall, desperately trying to take a deep breath. He flinched as the front door opened, and John entered, holding the hand of a blonde woman holding a gift box, and who appeared to be a much older Rosie, perhaps four or so years old._

 _He swallowed and jumped from the wall, desperately waving at John. "Watson, what's going on? Where am I?"_

 _To his dismay, the couple and the child continued into the flat, not hearing or seeing Sherlock. He followed them into the grand sitting room, suddenly recognizing the space, now without hordes of people, a small orchestra, and a buffet table._

 _He was standing in George's flat. Except now, pictures scattered the walls featuring George, Molly, and a small little girl with Molly's brown hair and George's green eyes. Sherlock swallowed and stared at the photos, feeling his stomach drop._

 _He turned around, his eyes landing on the happy couple, who sat huddled together on the sofa, the toddler perched on her father's lap, staring mesmerizingly at her mother's engorged belly._

" _Congrats on the new baby, Molly!" John announced, setting the gift box down. He turned to face the woman he entered with, giving her a soft kiss, "Jane and I are trying to have a baby as well."_

 _Sherlock again stood against the wall, his body shaking, trying to come to terms with the present situation. Where did he fit into any of this? And just as the thought crossed his head, he heard his name. He immediately perked up, thinking his presence had been noticed, when in fact, he was simply the topic of conversation._

" _My poor aunt is still devastated about your old mate, Sherlock. Such a shame."_

 _The room grew quiet, as Molly and John exchanged looks. John sighed._

" _It hurts, George. But Sherlock had a drug problem for years. His usage predated our friendship. And when he started back up, about three years ago, there was just no stopping."_

 _Sherlock paled._

 _My god, he thought, in this scenario, I'm dead?_

 _He cursed and slammed his head against the wall, not a fan of his Dickens journey. Watching Molly and her perfect life with her perfect suitor was making him sick._

" _This isn't how it's supposed to be!" He yelled to the audience, although no one noticed his presence, "We could have been perfect together! You're my soul mate! It's your fault I even believe in them!"_

 _He reared forward and swung at George, but his hand went through the bloke's body. He cursed and slammed himself against the wall._

 _The little girl jumped off George's lap and approached Sherlock, apparently the only one able to see him. She pulled at his jacket, and gave him a rather taunting grin. He snarled at her._

" _You could have been my daddy." Was all she said, before his world went black._

Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat, his body practically shaking, his sheets haphazardly knocked to the floor from his unsettling dream.

 _Nightmare is more like it._

John stumbled into the room, rubbing his eyes with a yawn. He gave Sherlock a pointed look.

"I let you stay the night here. Could you not wake Rosie up with your screaming? What are you even doing in here?" He paused before adding, "If you're wanking, I'll gut you."

Sherlock threw a pillow at John and collapsed back onto the bed, pulling his curls in frustration. John yawned and leaned against the door frame, watching his friend.

"Bad dream, then?"

"You could say that."

"Care to divulge?"

"I watched Molly and George get married. Then, I entered a time warp to discover that they had a daughter, were expecting, and that I was fucking dead!"

"Hmm. Where was I in this?"

"Well, you were celebrating her pregnancy with your new wife, and planning on having another child."

John practically smirked. "So, I made out pretty well in your worst-case scenario, eh?"

Sherlock growled. "Fuck off. You were also the git's Best Man, you ignorant traitor."

That had John smiling. "Well, that's how you know it's fiction, Sherlock. Rest assured, I would never be anyone else's Best Man. Only yours."

Sherlock swallowed, actually touched by the comment. He just nodded.

"Of course, I never expected you to ever get married."

"And now?"

He smiled. "Well, now, it seems like you want to. But before you can do that, you need to get the girl. And that requires you winning her affections from another man."

The room grew quiet. Sherlock continued to stare at the white ceiling of John's guest bedroom, while John leaned against the door frame, watching his friend. Finally, Sherlock spoke up.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm scared."

"Are you?"

"Remember how I said that I was never concerned about Tom, because I knew she'd never marry him?"

"Yes. I do."

"Well, I'm scared of George. Because while Molly may not love him, she would marry him for the safety and security."

John sighed and crossed his arms, continuing to watch his friend. "Right. So, Sherlock, what will you do?"

"I hardly know."


	19. Pemberley

" _Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there had been that in his voice which was not like ease."_

Xxx

A fortnight had passed since the dinner party. While the overall affair was lovely, and Molly could confidently say she did have at least a decent time, it wasn't necessarily an event she would like to repeat. Sure, she enjoyed getting dolled up, eating delicious food, and drinking expensive alcohol. But, after that evening, Molly realized something.

She was, by all intents and purposes, not a social person.

Yes, she quite enjoyed hanging out with her friends, but given the choice between an evening out at a club with lots of strangers, or sharing a pizza with Meena and watching _Love Island_ , she would certainly go with the latter.

Molly looked out the window of the car, enjoying watching the English countryside pass behind her, a pleasant view to calm her troubled mind. Since the party, it had been the only thing on her mind. Primarily, her experience getting to know George's crowd.

George was extremely kind, and a very down-to-earth person. The same could not be said for many of his co-workers and mates. Throughout the evening, she endured more discussion about plastic surgery procedures, fancy diets, exclusive boarding schools, holidays abroad, net worth, and royal gossip than she ever cared to know.

But mostly, she couldn't understand how George had befriended some of these extremely toxic, negative individuals. While some of the relationships were certainly not by choice (such as his, by all accounts, _awful_ boss), many were his longtime mates, the same blokes he went running and sailing with.

 _The same could be said about John and Sherlock. How did that happen?_

At the thought of Sherlock, she tensed, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the green landscape. Her relationship with Sherlock had been nothing but tumultuous in the last year, and all it had served to do was confuse her.

Did he have any right to tell her that George's crowd was not her own? That she lacked the backbone required to survive the brutal criticisms of such a society?

 _But he's right, Molly. You know it. Just the stylist mentioning your split ends had you upset._

She leaned her head against the cold glass of the window and shut her eyes, going back to her conversation with Sherlock on that balcony.

 _He's going to propose to you._

Sherlock was rarely wrong, and after her recent conversations with George, she was dare say… expecting the proposal, even before Sherlock confirmed her suspicions.

She gulped and began to fiddle with her seatbelt, considering the situation.

Would she marry George? Could she be happy with that lifestyle? The dinner parties, the yachting, their kids being sent off to exclusive private schools…

But she'd be with a man who'd treat her right, love her, and tell her so every free moment.

 _What would be wrong with that?_

She didn't have a chance to consider it any longer when the car turned suddenly, causing her eyes to fly open and her to jerk as forward as her seatbelt would allow her. From the front seats, a feminine laugh and a deep chuckle filled the air.

"Jesus, Thomas, do you mind? You're going to scare the knickers off Molly! I knew I should have driven," the blonde declared, her hands rubbing the knee of the jean-clad man driving.

From the driving seat, Thomas snorted, before turning to face Molly with a sinister grin. "Well, I do quite enjoy scaring my sister. Say, you hungry, Molls? Ellen has to go to the toilet."

Ellen groaned and smacked her husband, her gaze playful. "Oh, won't you just admit that your coffee went right through you? This is not a long drive! You're killing me!"

Molly grinned, her eyes shifting between her brother and sister-in-law, so deliriously happy by their loving marriage and playful banter. She unbuckled and grabbed her purse.

"It's alright! I can wait until we get there! How much longer, anyways?"

The trio exited the car and moved towards the pub, Molly watching with a grin as the married couple grabbed each other's hands, as if a magnet forced them together.

 _Someday._

Thomas grinned and used his free arm to wrap around Molly's shoulder, as usual, giving her the playful grin of an older brother. "Well, we should be to Oxford in less than a half hour. Not even a two-hour drive and Ellen is making us stop!"

Ellen rolled her eyes and entered the pub, giving Thomas another glare. "Please, you're just trying to make us late so we see less of my cousins."

He grinned. "I confess, that is a part of my plan."

"Yes, well, knock it off! You know I want to make it to Cotswolds. There's the castle, and Melanie from accounting recommended this family owned garden. She said it was the loveliest thing she had seen in ages. I really think we should go!"

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, Melanie also recommended that restaurant by your office that gave us food poisoning, and that awful show on Netflix that gave you nightmares."

Ellen smirked and opened the bathroom door, passing to give her husband one final look. "Tommy, my nightmares weren't from the show. They were from your performance after."

She disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Molly laughing hysterically next to her brother. He gave her a pointed look, to which she graciously stopped.

"Thanks for letting me tag along. I hope I didn't ruin your trip," Molly began, watching her brother with a small smile.

Thomas dropped down onto one of the benches, yawning. "Oh, not at all! We were close enough to London, so I'll happily go out of the way to meet you. Not to mention, Ellen's cousins are bloody awful, so I could use as many troops as possible."

Molly snorted and hit him softly. "So, I'm just collateral damage, fresh blood?"

"Indeed. What else are little sisters for?"

Molly laughed and sat beside Thomas, looking over at him with a face of reverence. "I've missed you so much. How's mum?"

At the mention of their mother, Thomas frowned, seemingly going deep into thought. When Molly squeezed his hand, he finally looked over at his sister, a look of concern washing over his features.

"She's been… Different, lately. I'm bringing her to a specialist on Thursday. I'm just concerned that there's something wrong."

Molly swallowed and nodded. "What are her symptoms? What's going on?"

Thomas shook his head and offered his sister a soft smile. "Please, don't worry about it. I'm sure she's fine and that I'm just being overbearing. But, I'll keep you updated."

Molly sighed and nodded. "Thank you. I'm sorry I'm not around to help."

He squeezed her hand. "Don't worry about it. You have a life here. Speaking of which, where's that boyfriend of yours?"

"Oh, well, since your visit was short notice, he had plans. He was running a marathon today, in Essex. He's sorry he couldn't make it."

Thomas laughed and stood up. "A marathon? That sounds awful! Well, I do wish to meet him. Especially if you really like this bloke. You know we're anxious for you to settle down and be happy."

Molly smiled and followed suit. "Well, the same could be said about you. I've been waiting for five years to become an Aunt."

Ellen exited the bathroom and smirked. "I've been telling him the same thing, Molly. Hopefully soon, yeah?"

He flushed ever so slightly and nodded. "Soon. We can go once I run to the toilet."

His wife groaned. "Was there any reason you didn't go while I was using it?"

"Sister-brother bonding time!" He announced, before hurrying into the restroom.

Molly smiled at Ellen. "He loves you so much."

"Yes, thankfully so, or I wouldn't tolerate his snoring or smelly feet!"

"Oh, I certainly don't miss that!"

"Yes, and hopefully your future husband doesn't have either of those maladies."

Moly smiled sadly and nodded, her head once again filling with thoughts of the future.

"I sure hope not."

Xxx

Sherlock sat in front of the fireplace, trying to keep a façade of a devoted listener, all the while thinking of what experiments to conduct with human tongues in the following week.

 _At least there's tea and homemade biscuits._

"You wouldn't believe the nerve of the woman! Ladies like Patricia are such horrid examples of successful, Christian women. We almost let her chase us out of the church! Because heaven forbid I start making the curtains!" Mrs. Holmes declared, wandering back into the sitting room and putting a freshly baked lemon drizzle cake down.

 _Oh, and lemon drizzle. Perhaps this trip wasn't for naught._

Mr. Holmes eagerly leaned forward and grabbed a slice, taking a hardy bite. "Yes, Darling. But I urge you to forget about what Patricia said. You know her opinions are of little consequence to us."

His wife snorted, a look of delight crossing her features. "Indeed, considering I won the pie-baking contest a month ago! Oh, the look on her face!"

Mr. Holmes nodded excitedly, grabbing another slice of cake. "She got what she deserved! At any rate, your curtains were a lovely addition to the guest bedroom."

She grinned and sipped her tea, decidedly happy with the situation. She looked back over to Sherlock, her eyes softening. She was so thrilled to see her youngest son, relatively happy and healthy. So many nights she had laid awake, worrying about Sherlock's wellbeing. She cleared her throat.

"Now, Sherlock, it's been almost five months since we've last seen you. What do you have to say to that?" She began.

Sherlock blinked, coming out of his experiment preparation, and focused on his mother. He leaned forward and grabbed a slice of cake for himself. "Would you like the honest answer or prefer one that would spare your feelings?"

She scowled. "Is that any way to speak to your mother?"

He sighed. "No, mother, I'm sorry. I have been extremely busy, both with my person and professional life. I apologize for being out of touch."

Her eyes narrowed. "Personal? Is there a girl involved?"

He cleared his throat. "I would like for there to be, but at the moment, no."

She frowned and nodded, sipping her tea with a look of sadness. "Oh, it seems that I will never get grandchildren! Even with dearest Mycroft! Four years and still not a ring on her finger!"

Sherlock blinked, almost choking on the piece of cake in his mouth. He took a gulp of tea to wash the piece down, and stared at his mother. "You and father know about Mycroft and Anthea?"

She waved her hand at his words, as if they were nonsense. "Of course. I've known since they became a couple. She even came on holiday with us to Cornwall!"

Sherlock shook his head, disbelief apparent. Deciding against giving Mycroft another angry lashing, he took an anxious bite of cake. His parents watched him steadily.

"Well, you'll have to come see the garden! Between the gnomes, the new pagoda, the fairytale section, and the gazebo with lights, it's become quite the spectacle! Your mother was listed in a country magazine as a must see. Every few days we have people coming around to see the place!" His father announced, slyly cutting his third piece of cake.

His mother beamed, clearly proud of her accomplishments. "I've considered opening a pie stand. That would really piss of Patricia!"

Her husband laughed. "Oh, indeed it would! She was already fuming when the article was released!"

As his parents continued to babble about church life, and their bloody garden, and a relationship that Mycroft had kept secret from only him, he began to wonder if he was missing a huge part of his life.

Was his family not a burden, but in fact a gift?

As his mother disappeared into the kitchen to prepare his favorite meal, and his father moved around the house to collect some of Sherlock's favorite novels from his childhood, he realized what he lacked.

A family.

And what a stupid, reckless man he had been.

 _I have already one._

Xxx

Molly stared out the window, absolutely delighted by the single-car road winding up to a gorgeous, mid-sized estate. The house was lovely, with an old-fashioned chimney and stained-glass windows adorning the exterior, and a door that Molly was confident was built with the house, likely two hundred or so years previously.

In the front seat, Ellen and Thomas bickered about the remainder of the day, as Molly's brother was none too eager for the final stop of the afternoon. He cursed and continued to drive up the winding road.

"Is it too much for me just want to get back to London? You made me meet with your awful cousins, endure a tour around Oxford that I had no interest in, and then three bloody hours at Sudeley Castle. Must you be so cruel?" He whined.

Ellen rolled her eyes and began to fiddle with her hair. "Honestly, Thomas, I don't see what was so bad about a meal with my cousins. Howard footed the bill and the campus is quite lovely!"

"That may be so, but how many times did he have to bring up his University friends and his reputation there? As if that makes him better than me." He mumbled to himself and rolled down the windows, desperate for a bit of air.

"There's nothing wrong with him being proud of his accomplishments. And the castle was gorgeous. Now, we'll just stop by the garden and be off. Okay?" She squeezed her husband's knee.

Thomas groaned and nodded. He stopped the car next to the wooden sign, allowing his wife time to read it.

 _Best Private Gardens in Southern England, Stately Homes Volume 24_

 _Welcome to our home! Take a stroll through our garden and enjoy yourselves. But please, do not pick the petunias or break our gnomes. – Georgina + Curtis Holmes_

Ellen squealed and got out of the car. "The article said they have a lovely set-up with gnomes, meant to look like different famous fairytales. Come on Molly!"

Molly got out of the car and stretched, looking around the adorable home and its extensive land. Her eyes landed on the sign and she read it, her body immediately tensing.

 _There's no way. Must be a coincidence._

She let out a nervous laugh and skipped over to Ellen, who had already moved towards the garden fencing. Thomas followed, groaning and complaining the entire way through.

The trio moved through the lovely garden, astounded by the degree of diversity of the flowers and plants surviving. There was a thriving vegetable garden, sprouting lovely rhubarb and carrots, as well as a gorgeous array of flowers, that somehow appeared to be in order of their shades.

Ellen grinned and turned to Molly. "According to the magazine, they call their garden The Burrow, like a rabbit's home. Personally, it just reminds me of _Harry Potter_." She laughed and skipped forward, Molly and Thomas following right behind.

They stumbled past a Japanese garden layout, equipped with a tiny pagoda and a lovely bridge, as well as in-bloom cherry blossoms. Ellen shoved her mobile into Thomas's hand and demanded that he take some photos of her on the bridge, so Molly abandoned the couple, deciding to continue through the gates.

She wandered past a street sign with the words "Grimm Way", and smiled at the reference, continuing along the footpath. She practically gasped at the displays, amazed by the intricate plant and gnome set ups, almost giggling to tears when her eyes landed on a Cinderella and Prince Charming gnome. She whipped her mobile out and began to take photos of the display, before a deep, inquisitive voice almost gave her a heart attack.

"Does Mother know that The Little Mermaid is one, not a fairy tale with a happy ending, and two, not a Grimm work? Tell me, could you two not go through some sort of vetting system before putting this ludicrous thing together?" A painfully deep voice asked.

Another male broke the silence as the footsteps got closer and the words got louder. "Oh, please don't upset your mum. She's quite thrilled with the entire thing. We get at least thirty or so visitors a week."

 _Should I make a run for it?_

Deciding that yes, running away would surely be the best option, Molly turned on her heels, only to run right into a one Sherlock Holmes. He grabbed her shoulders and steadied her, looking just as shocked as she did.

"I swear I didn't know! I had no idea! It was all Ellen's idea!" She managed to squeak out, practically shaking in Sherlock's grasp.

Sherlock groaned and let go of her, watching her curiously. "Why in God's name are you up in this part of the country, Molly?"

She bit her lip. "I joined my brother and sister-in-law for lunch in Oxford, and then we visited Sudeley Castle, and then Ellen wanted to stop here, because she read about it in a magazine!"

From beside Sherlock, the older man practically beamed. "That would be Stately Homes!" He turned and gave Sherlock a look, "See, it is indeed a real publication."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back at Molly, still unbelieving of her presence. "I see… So, your brother and his wife are here?"

"Yes. I left them in the Japanese garden taking photos."

"Oh, isn't it lovely? We even had the bridge shipped from Japan during a holiday in Osaka. I really—" Mr. Holmes stopped talking at Sherlock's perturbed expression.

"Father, this is Molly Hooper, a pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London. She is one of my dearest friends." Sherlock announced, causing a soft blush to spread across Molly's cheeks.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes." She told him, quickly sticking out her hand.

The old man laughed and pulled her into a hug. "Please, call me Curtis!"

 _How does a man who hugs end up with sons like Mycroft and Sherlock?_

Molly pulled away and smiled, opening her mouth to respond, until two sets of footsteps reared closer. Ellen and Thomas appeared behind a lovely shrub shaped like a tower, their faces reddened from what appeared to be a loving embrace.

Thomas raised his eyebrow and looked between Molly, Mr. Holmes, and Sherlock. He looked back at his sister. "Uh, Molly?"

She squeaked and bit her lip. "Um. Thomas, this is Curtis Holmes, and his son, Sherlock Holmes," She looked at Sherlock, "And this is my brother Thomas, and his wife Ellen."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Say, Sherlock Holmes? Like the famous detective?"

Sherlock couldn't help but quirk his lips. "Yes. And you are the famous Thomas Hooper. The bloke with the goldfish."

Thomas raised his eyebrow, clearly missing Sherlock's reference to his gift to his young sister. However, Molly flushed, unbelieving that Sherlock remembered her silly story about the fish. Thomas and Ellen exchanged pleasantries with Mr. Holmes, and the group continued to walk through the fairy tale display. Mr. Holmes was insistent on taking photos of the loving couple, and began to spout advice about a happy marriage.

"You know, Georgina and I have been married for almost fifty years. One of the things that has kept us together is having a good, old fashioned meal with one another. It's such a shame with today's generation. You lot are all on the go, and miss the comfort of just a simple meal with your family!" He announced, handing Ellen back her mobile.

"In fact," he continued, "We'd be remiss if you lot didn't stay for dinner. Especially since Molly is such a dear friend of Sherlock's."

Thomas opened his mouth, likely to reject the offer, but stopped when Ellen graciously elbowed him in the side. He groaned and nodded, giving Mr. Holmes a polite smile and acceptance of the offer.

"Splendid! Let's head inside! I believe she's making Yorkshire Pudding and a roast. She'll be so thrilled by all the young people here!"

Mr. Holmes led Thomas and Ellen inside, leaving Sherlock and Molly to follow. Molly swallowed and looked at the detective, unable to read his face.

"I'm so sorry," she began, "If I had any idea that it was your parent's home, or that you were going to be here, I promise, we would not have come!"

Sherlock just shrugged. "Truthfully, I had no idea I was to come. But Mycroft called me this morning and demanded I pay them a visit. I normally avoid spending time with my parents."

Molly frowned and gave him a look. "You shouldn't do that Sherlock. You have no idea when your visit with them will be the last. Every day I regret not spending more time with my father before he died, and now, I constantly worry about my mum."

He sighed and nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets, admittedly dressed more casually than his normal attire. "I know. I've realized today that perhaps I haven't treated my relations with the best regard."

"Then change that."

Sherlock smiled a bit and looked over at Molly. "That was precisely my intention."

Molly smiled back at him and walked towards the door. "Shall we join? Thomas and Ellen are lovely. Perhaps a bit too social for you, but I reckon you'll like them."

"I'll be on my best behavior. As for you, there's someone I'd like you to meet, someone who I know will be delighted to see you."

"Oh?"

"Georgina." He replied, strolling into the house, quickly slipping out of his shoes. Molly followed suit.

"Georgina?"

"Mummy Holmes." Was all he responded, before disappearing through the doors.

Molly gulped and blushed, rushing after him.

 _I'm meeting Sherlock's parents. What could possibly go wrong?_

Xxx

It had been an interesting dinner to say the least. It had taken Molly a solid ten minutes to process that she was sharing dinner with Sherlock and his parents, in his childhood home of all places. What a bizarre and unexpected twist in the pathetic story of her life.

But once that shock had worn off, dinner had proven to be enjoyable. Mrs. Holmes was downright precious. She was incredibly sweet to Molly, and as with Sherlock, was inquisitive about her life. Of course, unlike Sherlock, she understood social graces and privacy, so she didn't push too hard.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had also been exceedingly sweet to Thomas and Ellen, asking them about their careers, and any perspective children. Although, to be quite honest, Molly tuned most of that conversation out, instead watching Sherlock with a morbid fascination, wandering what it would have been like for a small Sherlock Holmes to sit at that table, listening to his parents discuss their days.

But, as all good things must, the meal came to an end, and the group was currently finishing up their tea and homemade Jaffa cakes, to which Sherlock had eaten four.

She had never seen Sherlock eat so much. It was rather refreshing.

As Mr. Holmes recounted the story of putting their garden together, Sherlock bolted up in chair, causing his father to stop his story, and for the rest of the party to look over at him. He cleared his throat, set his napkin down, and forced a pleasant smile.

"Father, Mother, what a delightful dinner. Now, if you'd excuse me, I'd like to invite Molly on a stroll through the garden before they depart."

Everyone looked towards Molly, who unfortunately was in the middle of chewing a mouthful of Jaffa cake. She swallowed and nodded, her cheeks darkening. As she got up and followed Sherlock to the garden, the remaining four watched on.

Mrs. Holmes gave her a husband a pointed look. Amusingly, Ellen gave Thomas an identical one.

Xxx

The stars were out for the pleasant evening, nothing but clear skies and a delicious chill. Sherlock walked ahead of Molly, circling the garden with his hands shoved in his pockets. Molly followed behind, unsure of what to say. She hadn't seen or really talked to Sherlock since her dinner party, and she didn't know where they stood.

She never did. Even before this mess.

But, she preferred to babble rather than walk in silence, so she began to talk anyways. "Your mum has really done a fantastic job out here."

Sherlock nodded and slowed down, seemingly realizing that he wasn't walking at a speed Molly could maintain. "Indeed. This garden has been her passion project. For as long as I could remember, she was out here whenever possible. I have fond memories within the white fencing."

Molly smiled at Sherlock, enjoying the infrequently seen look of admiration across his features. "You don't speak of your childhood much. I had no idea you grew up out here."

Sherlock began to walk again. Molly groaned and followed him, willing her short legs to keep up.

"I was bored out here. There was nothing to play with my senses. Nothing to interest me but green landscape, fresh biscuits, and Mycroft's boasting."

"I see."

They continued to wander along the path of the garden, saying nothing. The light breeze of the evening, the occasional owl's hoot, and the once heard cackle of Mrs. Holmes from the house kept them company.

Finally, they stopped in front of the vegetable garden. Sherlock looked over at Molly, a peculiar look on his face. Molly noticed and frowned.

"May I share a story with you?"

"Of course," she responded, softly.

Sherlock cleared his throat, his eyes locked on the small plot. "When I was a child, I fancied this small rabbit. He frequented this vegetable garden. I had named him Peter."

Molly couldn't help but smile, thinking about a tiny Sherlock Holmes reading Peter Rabbit stories, just like any other child. She continued to watch the man, thoroughly fascinated.

"I used to follow him around. I'd take notes on his behavior, sketch his movements, make predictions about his actions. I really grew to like Peter."

He looked at Molly, pausing to think, before continuing his story. "I suppose the story is rather like your experience with your goldfish. Because poor Peter was brutally murdered by my father's lawn mower, right in front of my eyes. And at the time, it felt like the world had ended. I was devastated, and felt the acutest form of loss, something that I had never encountered before. I hadn't known it existed before that moment."

Molly frowned and grabbed his hand. She ran her thumb across the pad of it, the same way her mother used to soothe her, and continued to listen.

"I even threw him a funeral of sorts. Set some flowers by his home. That sort of thing. And Mycroft found me. He was quick to warn me against caring in the future. That any subsequent sentiment would just hurt me the same way in which Peter's death did."

He sighed and ruffled his hair, his gaze locked on the vegetable garden. "It's rather silly, isn't it? That an event in our childhood, over something as trivial such as the death of a common woodland creature, could have such a remarkable effect on how we deal with our feelings in the future?"

"I don't think it's silly," Molly replied, her voice soft.

Sherlock cursed and looked at Molly, his blue eyes meeting her brown gaze. "In truth, I've always been afraid of caring after that moment. Perhaps it was Mycroft's warning. Or watching Peter's life taken before my eyes, knowing how helpless he and I both were. But… It scarred me."

He began to walk again. "I suppose it's rather like Mary's death. A tragic event that I could have prevented."

Molly walked up behind him and hugged him from behind, causing the man to tense. She put her cheek on the back of his jacket and sniffled.

"Oh, Sherlock, won't you ever get it? Life is unfair. Death happens to those who don't deserve it. But we shouldn't miss out on life because we're afraid of getting hurt. Since when have you ever skipped a case because you were worried that you would die in the process?"

He swallowed. "I never have."

"Exactly! Life is the same way. Don't let your past scare you." Molly whispered into his back, before backing away from his form. He turned to look at her, and studied her face.

"Molly, I'm sorry for how poorly I've treated you in the past. The cruel comments, the manipulation, the danger I've put you in… Everything. I'm so truly sorry, because you, of all people, never deserved it. You are one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I've ever met, and my life would not be the same without you in it."

Molly swallowed and stared at Sherlock, holding in the tears that begged to escape. "Oh, Sherlock…"

"I realize you may never forgive me. But, I would please, if it would not inconvenience you, like to continue being your friend. Would that be possible?"

Molly hugged him again and placed her cheek on his chest. "Of course, Sherlock, of course."

Sherlock swallowed and hugged her back. "Splendid. Would you like to accompany me, John, and Rosie to the park this weekend?"

"I would love to."

He swallowed and pulled away, nodding rather rigorously. "Splendid. So. I'll see you this weekend?"

"Of course."

With that, he disappeared into the house. Molly took a deep breath and tried to steady her breathing before seeing her brother, when Sherlock popped his head back out.

"My apologies. Goodnight, Molly. Have a safe trip back to London."

Finally, he disappeared, leaving Molly grinning like an absolute fool.

 _You, Molly Hooper, ARE an absolute fool._

Xxx

As their car drove back down to the main road, a full three hours after they originally planned on departing, an awkward air filled the car. Molly was blushing something fierce, staring out the window, remembering both the feel and the smell of holding Sherlock so close.

From the front seat, both her brother and his wife watched from the rear-view mirror, trying to determine what exactly had transpired, and who exactly this bloke was to Molly. Thomas, as any other brother would, had finally had enough of the mystery.

"Alright, spit it out. What's going on between you and the famous detective?"

Molly swallowed and looked away from the window, meeting Thomas's gaze in the mirror. She took a deep breath. "Well, if you must know… He's in love with me."

Ellen positively squealed from the front seat. Thomas raised an eyebrow and studied his sister in the mirror.

"But you have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who, by all accounts, is not Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes."

"Then how do you feel about Sherlock?"

Molly sighed and leaned her head against the window, enjoying the buzz of the car and the breeze of the London evening.

"I hardly know."


	20. Taciturn Disposition

" _Do not give way to useless alarm; though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain."_

Xxx

It had been a busy few days since she had met Sherlock and his parents at his childhood home. It had been a surprising, yet delightful evening, between getting to know his parents, and even having part of her family along for the ride. Over the past days, she couldn't help but laugh as she thought of the time spent at his family estate. Since then, unfortunately, Thomas and Ellen had left, driving back to Leeds to return to their regular lives.

Molly already missed her brother and sister-in-law. She saw them only four or so times a year, and her flat was already too quiet for her liking after their departure. But, just as she did, they needed to return to work, and her mum.

Once they had left, she went back about her normal life, including a few dates with George, which were always pleasant and left her in a good mood. Admittedly, she continued to think back to Sherlock's suggestion of a pending proposal, and she put her best investigatory skills to use, trying to determine when that ask would happen.

 _If it's going to happen._

And sticking true to Sherlock's ask, she accompanied him, John, and Rosie to the park later in the week. Rosie was just delightful, screaming and giggling every time her tiny bum hit the slide or the swings, and she was especially excitable when a friendly couple showed up with an even nicer dog.

Molly had been more interested in watching Sherlock and Rosie interact than anything else. She spoke to him a few times that day, mostly about very superficial topics, but overall, her attention had been directed at the small child.

But now, on a sunny Thursday afternoon, Molly sat on a park bench, taking bites of her sandwich during her lunch hour. While she normally stuck to the office or the cafeteria, she couldn't resist going outside to feel the sun on her skin.

As she ate away, reading the news on her mobile, she was startled as the device began to ring. At the flashing of her brother's name and face, she grinned and quickly accepted the call.

"Thomas! How are you? Not too bad getting back into work, I hope," she laughed, before taking another bite of her sandwich.

The silence on the other end of the line made her frown. "Thomas?"

Finally, a low sigh, one clearly belonging to her older brother, filled her ears. "Molly? Are you alone? Are you sitting down?"

Molly frowned and shifted on the bench. She set her half-eaten sandwich down. "Yes… Thomas, are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Molly, it's mum. I took her to see a doctor and the results just came in. She's sick, Molly. Really sick," Thomas replied, his voice strained.

Molly sat up and dug her free hand into her knee, wondering if she heard him correctly. "Thomas, what do you mean she's sick? What did the doctor say?"

"She has cancer, Molly."

"What type?" She replied quickly, conscious of a few tears escaping her eyes.

"Lymphoma. Non-Hodgkin," she could hear him shifting around, presumably reading from papers, "You're much better with the medicine stuff. I'll email you over what he said but… I'm scared."

Molly wiped at her eyes and took a shaky breath. "What stage? Thomas, I need you to tell me how bad it is."

She heard his breath hitch, and prepared herself for an answer she was dreading. "It's advanced, Molls. She collapsed a few hours ago. We're at the hospital now."

Molly began to cry, dropping her gaze from the beautiful London afternoon to the dreary grey of her trousers. She wiped at her cheeks, not caring where her mascara went.

"Is she okay? What are our options?" She asked, taking short breaths to calm her crying.

She could practically hear his frown. "She's settled in now. She's sleeping. The doctor said that since the cancer has spread so much, there's no guarantee that chemo could do much." her heart practically broke at the sound of her brother's sniffle, "Even with it, he still doesn't envision a longer prognosis than nine months."

Molly shut her eyes and let her head fall backwards, momentarily frozen by the feel of her sun on her face. It reminded her of the feeling of her mum brushing her hair, promising that everything would be alright.

 _Would it be?_

She opened her eyes and sniffled. "What does she want to do?"

Thomas sighed and again began to flip through papers. "She hasn't decided if she wants to go through chemo yet. I think she…" there was a break in his voice that caused Molly to shake, "I think she may be content to let it run its course."

"No," was all Molly managed to whisper out.

"But," Thomas started up again, a glimmer of hope in his voice, "Dr. Martin mentioned a new experimental treatment in the States. Apparently, it uses gene therapy to attack the cancer. Almost 90 percent of patients have seen their tumors completely disappear or shrink considerably."

Molly rose to her feet, tossing the remainder of her lunch into a bin. She began to walk back towards the hospital, almost mindlessly. She took another shuttering breath.

"Let's get her on the list, Thomas. What chance does she have with just chemo?"

Silence filled her ears, giving Molly the answer she dreaded but expected.

"Let's get her on the list," she repeated, "We can't give up."

"It's not that simple," Thomas pleaded, his voice breaking.

"Why not?" She practically screamed, new tears pouring down her face.

"You know how the NHS is! You think they're going to let a dying woman leave the country for experimental treatment? Not to mention how much bloody money it would cost?"

"Thomas, please," she began, her voice desperate, "Start the paperwork. Apply for her to leave. Don't worry about the money. I'll empty my accounts or we'll take out a loan. Just right now, we need the chance."

Another silence filled her ears.

"Please?" she whispered again, shutting her eyes to prevent more tears from escaping.

"Of course, Molls," Thomas responded, his voice as strained as her own, "I'll submit them tonight."

Silence filled her ears again, as both her and her brother apparently realized what they had been discussing.

Her mother was dying.

"I'm on my way, Thomas. I'll be there tonight."

"Molly?"

"Yes?"

"I love you. Be safe."

"Of course," she managed out, before ending the call and rushing back to her office.

 _We only need a chance._

Xxx

As she laid in her brother's guest room, later that evening, she finally came to terms with the day. Between a full day at the office, to the late-night train ride to Leeds, to the feeling of holding her mum close as she slept in her hospital bed, knowing what was to come…

Molly was both physically and mentally exhausted. Her conversation with Thomas upon arrival had ended with a tearful screaming match, with her brother voicing practical concerns, both financially and on their mother's spirits, whereas Molly just wanted a chance to see her mum next Christmas.

 _We only need a chance._

But a dreadful fear still overwhelmed her body, forcing her to come to grips with the thought of losing her mother, the one person who had always been there for her. From falling and scraping her knee, to the broken hearts and silly boys, to the loss of her father…

Her mother had always been there, a sort of constant in her life that she never questioned. That she never expected she would lose at such a young age.

She wiped at her eyes, reminding herself that crying was okay. That she had a right to be hurt and scared. A type of hurt and scared that she hadn't felt since…

 _Sherlock._

She buried her face in the pillow, disgusted with herself that the one person she wanted to talk to was the one person she had no business engaging with. She had yet to even tell George that she left London, and here she was wanting to call Sherlock.

No longer caring about right from wrong, Molly picked up her mobile with shaking hands and dialed Sherlock's number, holding the device to her ear, allowing the tears to fall freely.

After a few rings, his deep voice filled her ear, enveloping her shaking body in a warm blanket, settling her nerves in a way she never thought possible.

"Molly?" He asked, clearly surprised by her call.

Molly sniffled and shut her eyes, focusing on just the sound of his voice. "Can you do me a favor?" She asked, her words strained.

"Are you okay?" He asked, suddenly concerned with her tone.

"Sherlock, please..."

"Are you in any danger?" He asked again, rather forcibly.

Molly sniffled. "No, Sherlock."

She heard him take a deep breath.

"What do you need, Molly?"

She shifted in her bed, snuggling into her pillow, pretending someone was holding her close, whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

"Can you promise me that everything will be okay?"

He paused on the other end of the line, before taking another deep breath. "Molly, I promise everything will be okay. I will make sure of it."

Molly sniffled and wiped at her cheeks once again. "Thank you, Sherlock."

And with that, she ended the call, dozing off to sleep with Sherlock's words on her brain.

 _I promise everything will be okay._

Xxx

About two weeks had passed since her trip to Leeds and Molly had yet to really believe her mother's diagnosis, much less accept it. Her mother was still in the hospital, growing paler and weaker every day. But, even had her state of unwell, she seemed in good spirits. She was happy. She was smiling.

Her mother was being herself.

So, it had been a hard pill to swallow, and a difficult adjustment once back in London, only having spent three short days with Thomas, Ellen, and her mother, trying to come to terms with what to do next. Her mother, even under the harsh hospital lights, was hesitant to begin chemotherapy and she and Thomas were waiting with bated breath for a response from the NHS on their application to take her to the States for experimental treatment.

It had been a blur, and on this Friday afternoon, after a lengthy lunch chat with her mum over the phone, she was quite ready to go home and sleep. George had been a doll during the time since her return from Leeds, dropping by frequently with flowers and food, promising her that everything would be alright.

Yet, his words didn't give her faith the same way Sherlock's did.

George was now off on a sailing trip to somewhere with a few University friends, and Molly was happier than she should be for an evening alone. But, with all the emotional turmoil from the past few weeks, she was glad to remain in her bed, with only Toby to keep her company.

That all changed when she heard someone enter the lab, as she was busy putting her equipment away. Sherlock stood by the door, his hands shoved into his Belstaff.

"Hello, Sherlock." She told him, admittedly a bit tiredly, given the past few weeks.

He cleared his throat. "Molly, I came to ask for your assistance."

She sighed and began to wash her hands. "The bodies are away. I'm leaving."

"No, not that. I… I request your accompaniment on a case."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "You want me to join you on a case? Where's John?"

"He's in Brighton with Rosie. They're visiting his sister. But, I need to follow a lead up north. Will you join me?"

Molly glanced over at her mobile, considering the offer.

How could she devote her energy and brain to helping Sherlock, when all she really wanted to do was sleep and cry? Would she be selfish to distract herself as her mother was sitting in a hospital in Leeds, slowly withering away? Did she even have a right to be galivanting across the country with Sherlock, when she was dating George?

Sherlock continued to watch, an eyebrow raised, wondering why it was taking so long for her to accept the offer.

Molly sniffled and grabbed her bag, having made up her mind.

 _I could use a distraction. Why the hell not?_

She crossed the room and looked at Sherlock, who watched her expectantly.

"I'll come."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "Splendid. We'll drop by your flat to pack you a bag. Our train leaves at 6."

With that, he exited the lab, with Molly hurrying behind. She rubbed at her eyes, excited to fall asleep on their train ride. But, as they left the hospital, and Molly finally got a breath of fresh air, one thought occurred to her.

"Wait, Sherlock. Where are we going?"

Sherlock stopped walking and looked back at her, unable to hide a small smile.

"Scotland."

And then he continued, leaving Molly to race after him, an unexpected smile across her features as well.

Xxx

NOTE:

Thanks for reading! So, beginning with this chapter and a handful to follow, a few medical topics will be discussed, as well as the British health care system. I ask my readers to keep an open mind as 1. I know nothing about medicine and 2. Know nothing about the British health care system. So, please don't tear me apart in the comments—I'll need a bit of extended belief with this sort of thing 😊


	21. An Engaging Game

" _He had the distinct impression that she was toying with him, verbally challenging him to a duel that she was certain to win, for she established the rules and kept them a secret from him."_

Xxx

They sat in the first-class section of the train, Sherlock with his nose buried deep in a medical journal. Molly, on the other hand, held a cup of tea in her hands, her eyes locked on the scenery, knowing that as soon as the sun went down, she'd lose the gorgeous landscape.

Sherlock glanced over at her, surprised by her silence. He shut his book and continued to study her.

"You're awfully quiet. You've yet to ask about our case."

Molly sniffled and glanced over at Sherlock. She simply shrugged her shoulders and continued to glance out the window.

He sighed and shut his eyes, slowly evaluating the different ways to approach an upset woman. He wasn't very good with people, especially sad people. How did he broach the subject?

He groaned and sat up. "Molly. I would like to know why you're sad."

Molly looked back over at Sherlock, her eyes tired. "What makes you think I'm sad?"

He sighed. "Must we, Molly?"

She just shrugged again.

He cursed. "Alright, fine. You haven't said more than six words to me in the first hour of the train ride. You're wearing dark colors, which on a Friday for you, is especially uncommon. Between the option of green tea and hot chocolate, you picked the tea, which is especially unlike you considering your penchant for chocolate."

He tilted his head, watching her curiously. "Most of all, we're going on an adventure, and you seem miserable. So, Molly Hooper, please tell me. Why are you sad?"

Molly frowned and dropped her gaze to her lap. She blinked a few times, desperate to keep her tears at bay. She sighed and finally glanced back at Sherlock, who watched her with an unexpected look of concern.

"It's my mum, Sherlock. She's… She's dying."

Sherlock took a deep breath and reached across the seat, hesitantly dropping it next to Molly's on the armrest. She made the decision for him, gently picking up his hand and squeezing it.

"I'm sorry. Everything will be okay." He told her, his voice soft.

"How can you be so sure?" She asked him, her voice hoarse, her eyes wet.

"Because you told me the same thing when I was in your position. And you would never lie to me. Not to mention, you were right. Things got better. They were never the same but… They got better."

Molly hiccupped and squeezed his hand, her eyes locked on his blue gaze. "I don't want her to die."

"Maybe she won't. Medical science is improving every day."

"What do I do if she does?"

Sherlock frowned and caressed her cheek, captivated by her beautiful, sad brown eyes. "It will hurt considerably. But you will remember the wonderful moments, and be content that she died a happy woman."

"I just hate being so far away from her," she began, fresh tears falling down her face, "I'm saving my time off for when she begins treatment. Am I an awful daughter for going with you, instead of sitting by her side?"

Sherlock shook his head, continuing to study her. "No. I don't believe so. You've done what you can."

She frowned and nodded, before pressing her face against the cold window. Sherlock watched, a sadness filling his chest, unfamiliar with the sympathetic response of his body.

Molly sniffled and took a deep breath, forcing herself to give Sherlock a small smile. "I'm made you suffer enough, haven't I? Tell me about the case."

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle. "Are you sure?"

"Very sure."

He gave her a curt nod. "Well, we're following an arms dealer to Edinburgh. She's ruthless and clever. She has ties to a small village outside of the city. We'll stay at a bed and breakfast owned by her sister."

He took a breath and continued. "So, the first course of action—"

Molly watched on, unable to hold back a smile, content with just listening to his voice, even if she wasn't paying attention to a single word he said.

 _Everything will be okay._

Xxx

Once their train arrived, they rented a car, and were on the road. For reasons unclear to Molly, and since she was unwilling to ask Sherlock for the exact details of his case, they drove three hours north of Edinburgh, finally arriving at a small bed and breakfast a little after one in the morning.

She yawned and stumbled out of the car, half asleep after dozing off on the ride over. Sherlock grabbed their bags and led her inside, where he approached the front desk, and engaged in a playful banter with the old lady manning it.

Molly, on the other hand, circled the cozy living area, enjoying the heat of the roaring fire, and the wonderful photos of the Scottish coast. For some reason, her lungs finally filled with air, and for the first time in weeks, she felt like she could take a deep breath. As she studied one photo of a grassy hill, Sherlock's voice awoke her from her stupor.

"Love, our room is ready." He announced, before wandering back outside. Molly blinked, surprised by the term of endearment, but overlooked it knowing it was for the case. She quickly followed Sherlock down a paved pathway, until they ended up in front of a small cottage.

They entered, and Molly couldn't help but gasp. From the deliciously old-fashioned furniture, to the glorious roar of the giant fireplace, to the four-post bed, commanding the attention of the center of the room, the room was stunning. She held her hand to her mouth, truly enamored with the scene before her.

Sherlock, as Sherlock would, simply yawned and tossed the bags on the floor. He stretched and dropped to the sofa, grabbing a biscuit from the tray set out in front of him. He looked over at Molly, who still looked around the room, her mouth agape.

"If you have not figured it out for yourself, we will be playing the role of a married couple. Your wedding band is inside your handbag. I will be William, yourself Elizabeth. The bed is yours. I will be on the sofa."

Molly swallowed and nodded, still looking around the room like an overwhelmed child. Sherlock ate another biscuit and watched her, just as enamored with her response as she was with the room.

"Let's head to bed. I'm sure you're exhausted. Besides, we wouldn't want to miss breakfast."

Molly simply nodded and grabbed her bag, before disappearing into the bathroom. Sherlock sighed and rose to his feet, quickly changing into a set of pyjamas, as even he was a bit chilly in the Scottish breeze. Molly reappeared, dressed in a pair of cozy pyjamas, and offered Sherlock a small smile.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." She whispered, before climbing into the bed, entirely too big for only her.

He grabbed a blanket from one of the chairs and sprawled across the sofa, his eyes locked on the roaring fire.

"Goodnight, Molly." Was all he offered, before the room became silent.

And just like that, the two drifted off to sleep, both wondering how much warmer the evening would be if they were holding the other.

Xxx

 _She was at Baker Street._

 _Why was she there? And why were there photos of her along the mantle?_

 _She emerged from the kitchen, holding a tray of tea, extremely confused. In the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft Holmes chatted away, offering Molly pleasant smiles during their conversation._

 _Molly swallowed and leaned against the wall, wondering what weird world she had entered. And then she heard it._

 _The crying._

 _The telling wail of a young child, desperate for the attention of its mother._

 _Was it Rosie? Was she also at Baker Street?_

 _But for some reason, an ache in Molly's chest grew larger, and she found her body moving towards the walkway. Before she could even exit the sitting room, Sherlock Holmes appeared, clad in a lavender shirt and a white dressing gown, holding a baby boy with big blue eyes and dark curly hair._

 _Molly's eyes locked with the young boys' and her heart grew six sizes. Sherlock beamed at her, bouncing the child on his hip._

" _I believe Ben wants to see his mother," He announced, as he held the child out towards Molly._

 _She gulped and took the boy, practically melting as his small frame met her arms. He nuzzled his face into her chest, and she returned the favor, practically burying her face in his baby-scented dark curls._

" _He had a lovely nap. He enjoys sleeping on top of me. You should have joined us," Sherlock announced, before dropping to his chair. He gazed over at Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, a grin spreading across his features._

" _I am glad to see my nephew developing so well." Mycroft said, his gaze shifting between Molly with Ben, and Sherlock, who had begun to pluck at his violin. "In fact, I brought him a gift."_

 _Sherlock looked over at his brother curiously, and set his violin down. He grabbed the fancily wrapped package from Mycroft's hands and opened it, practically snorting as his eyes met the tiny deerstalker._

" _Does this entertain you?" Sherlock asked, clearly amused, even if he wanted to appear annoyed._

 _Mycroft simply nodded, before rising to his feet. He grabbed the hat out of the box, and approached Molly, who was still holding the baby close to her chest, practically inhaling his scent._

" _May I?" Mycroft asked, motioning towards the hat._

 _Molly swallowed and nodded, her gaze focused on Mycroft as he set the hat on the young boy's head. Ben looked between his mother and his uncle, before tugging on the hat. Sherlock joined the trio, immediately grinning once he saw his son._

" _Well, Mycroft, I for once appreciate your presence. My wife and I have a young detective on our hands!"_

 _Before Molly could even open her mouth to respond, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. As the two passionately kissed, Ben giggled and pulled at his father's shirt, a mischievous grin across his face._

" _Say," Sherlock began, as he gently separated himself from Molly, "I very much hope that our next child is a girl."_

" _Another baby?" Molly squeaked out, shocked by his words._

" _Well, yes. You are pregnant, Molly. Were you unaware?"_

 _Molly blinked and looked down, surprised to now find herself very much pregnant. She looked back at Sherlock, who was grinning something fierce._

" _This is splendid. We're going to beat John with offspring count."_

 _Molly opened her mouth to respond, but was again pulled into a passionate kiss with her… husband._

 _His lips trailed up her neck, until they rested below her ear. He made a gentle bite on the skin._

" _Welcome home, Mrs. Holmes."_

Molly's eyes shot open, her entire body shaking as she slowly woke up. She glanced over at the clock, surprised to see that it was only five in the morning. She swallowed and wrapped another blanket around her body.

 _What the hell was that about?_

She glanced over at the sofa, where Sherlock still appeared to be fast asleep. With a shaky breath and a plumping of her pillow, she shut her eyes, determined to return to sleep.

From across the room, Sherlock gazed at the dying fire, himself also awoken moments ago from a dream. He shifted on the sofa and shut his eyes, willing himself to fall back asleep.

 _Mycroft would gift my child a deerstalker. Even in my dreams he is predictable._

Xxx

As they sat in the main cabin of the lodging, settled in an intimate table at the back of the dining room, Molly still couldn't believe where she was. If someone had told her she was going to spend her Saturday in the beautiful Scottish countryside, staying in the most adorable of B&Bs around, she would have laughed.

Yet, as she spread some jam on her toast, she was delighted to realize this was real life. While she continued to eat, the waiter came around, presenting a dish of freshly cooked rashers to the table. Before Molly could even reject the offering, Sherlock's voice was audible.

"No, thank you. My wife does not eat pork. Please ensure we aren't offered any other pork products…" he looked at the young server, until his eyes landed on a badge, "Ross. And see to it that's she's brought a pastry with chocolate."

Ross nodded and scurried away, leaving Molly to sip her tea and stare at Sherlock with wide eyes. He took a bite of the eggs in front of him and gave her a curious look.

"What?"

Molly swallowed and shook her head, preoccupying herself with another bite of toast. Ross was quick to return with a fresh chocolate croissant and a plate of turkey bacon, immediately clarifying the meat content before disappearing.

Sherlock grabbed a piece and took a bite, before returning his attention to his eggs. Molly grabbed the croissant and dove in, holding in a moan as her tongue hit the chocolate. She looked back to Sherlock, who was watching her intently as she finished her breakfast.

"So…" Molly swallowed and nibbled on her lip, "William. What's on the itinerary for today?"

Sherlock sipped his tea and considered the question. "After breakfast, we'll take a walk along the area," he began, "before visiting a local castle. Then, we visit a whisky distillery for a tour, before ending back here for dinner."

Molly just nodded and pushed her plate away, deliciously full of the wonderful breakfast. "That sounds delightful. But when do we… You know?"

Sherlock gave her a look, reminding her to watch her words. "Do not worry about that, dearest Elizabeth. I'll take of it."

Molly just nodded and finished her tea, quickly entertaining herself with the gorgeous, very local artwork of the dining room.

Sherlock sighed and finished his own tea, sincerely hoping that he was doing something right.

 _I doubt John would support my scheming._

 _Oh well._

 _What he doesn't know certainly won't hurt him._


	22. A Moment More Valuable

" _My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever."_

xxx

"Wrong again!" Sherlock chirped delightedly as he looked away from the group of magpies and continued to sketch the creatures in his notepad, a beanie hiding his curls in the chilly Scottish breeze.

 _Sherlock in a beanie. This is unexpected._

Molly flushed and sat up, pressing her back further into the trunk of the gorgeous tree she sat under. She couldn't decide if she was more enamored with Sherlock sketching a bird, or the fact that his disguise included a bloody beanie!

"Well, aren't you going to ask?" Sherlock piped in, glancing between the bird and the notepad.

Molly couldn't help but giggle. "Alright. What was Rosie's first word if it wasn't dada, baby, or hi?"

Sherlock smirked and gazed up from his drawing. "Hat."

She couldn't help but burst into another fit of giggles. "It's a shame you aren't wearing it now."

"Well, I'd be rather recognizable in it, wouldn't you say?"

Molly snorted and gave him an amused grin. "Someone is letting fame get to their head."

Sherlock made a noise of agreement before sitting up. He turned his pad around, allowing Molly to see the intricately sketched magpie. She gasped.

"Sherlock… That's incredible! I had no idea you could do that."

He smiled and began to put his supplies away. "It was one of my favorite hobbies as a child. Especially when I felt trapped in that house, in the middle of nowhere, nothing to challenge me… Well, I could draw whatever I wanted."

Molly smiled and watched as he filled his bag. "I was the same with reading. There was nothing a good book couldn't fix," She leaned back and shut her eyes, seemingly enveloped in a pleasant memory.

Sherlock watched her, a smile ghosting his lips. "What was your favorite novel?"

Molly opened one eye, peering at Sherlock. She couldn't prevent the blush on her cheeks from darkening. "I wish I could say it was something super insightful and political like _1984_ or _Animal Farm_ or _War and Peace_ but…" She laughed and bit her lip, "I quite enjoyed anything by Jane Austen."

Sherlock nodded and rose to his feet. He held his hand out, lifting Molly up. He brushed off his backside and began to walk.

"I'm not surprised," he announced over his shoulder, "Especially after you name dropped Mr. Bingley and Mr. Knightley."

Molly followed, desperately trying to keep up with Sherlock. "Hold on! You've read _Pride and Prejudice_? And _Emma_? You?"

He looked over his shoulder to give her a pointed look. "Of course, I have. I've read every classic there is. Not to mention, I attended school. Half her novels were on the reading list."

Molly swallowed and nodded, following Sherlock as they neared their cabin. She cleared her throat. "Right. Noted."

He snorted. "Besides, what poor characters to name drop. While Charles Bingley may have been a nice bloke with good intentions, he lacked a brain of his own and was easily manipulated by both his sister and Mr. Darcy. And as far as Mr. Knightley goes… Who's to say Emma wasn't groomed as a child for that relationship?"

Molly gasped and hit his back, causing Sherlock to stop and scowl. "Don't say something so despicable about someone as wonderful as Mr. Knightley!"

Sherlock laughed and entered their cabin. He dropped his bag and peered at Molly. "You're right. The intolerable character in that novel was Emma."

Molly groaned again. "Stop pointing out flaws in my childhood favorites!"

"We could suggest the plot holes in Peter Rabbit if you'd like to equalize the novel criticisms. The tales are about an anthropomorphic rabbit."

Molly groaned and went to change, leaving Sherlock to laugh and stoke their fire.

Xxx

The day had come and gone, and Molly and Sherlock had not wasted a moment. From their big breakfast, to their wonderful hike, to a glorious castle visit, to touring a whiskey distillery, to reading by the fire… It had been wonderful. In fact, Sherlock had only disappeared for about thirty minutes to conduct some investigating for their case, but he assured Molly that every one of their activities was helping put pieces of the puzzle together.

Molly didn't ask any questions. She was too busy enjoying herself. From the gorgeous green landscape, to the crisp air, to the thousand-year old castle, to the delicious whiskey… She was having the time of her life.

Now, with the moonlight shining through the window, she and Sherlock sat in a back booth of the dining room, eating a beautiful roast next to the roaring fire.

As Molly ate another piece of potato, Sherlock held up his mobile, showing Molly a photo of Rosie, John, and his sister at the beach. Unfortunately for John, he was a tad red, clearly from an unprotected day in the sun.

"What a moron," Sherlock announced delightedly, "I guarantee he spent hours coating her in sun lotion, and the idiot couldn't even put some on himself." He groaned and ate a piece of meat, "Of course now I'll have to deal with his complaining for the next week."

Molly just giggled and sipped her wine. "Don't be too harsh on him. I imagine being a parent is incredibly difficult," she sighed and began to play with her food, "Especially when you're doing it alone."

Sherlock frowned and dropped his gaze to his own food. "Yes… I believe you are right."

The two ate in silence for a few moments as a waiter came over and refilled their glasses. Molly took another generous sip and looked back to Sherlock.

"So… How's everything… Coming along?" She asked, careful with her word choice.

Sherlock couldn't help but grin as he finished his plate. "Don't you worry about that, my dearest wife. I have it all under control."

Molly nodded and dropped her silverware, extremely pleased with their meal. "This was amazing. Thank you for bringing me along."

He waved his hand and watched as a server cleared their table. "I hope you're not too stuffed. I've ordered us something called 'The Choc Ness Monster'. I believe it's some sort of fudgy, chocolate cake."

Molly whimpered and sipped her wine. "Believe me, there's always room for that."

Sherlock laughed and gave her a soft smile. "Good. But don't eat too much. We'll be on our feet after this."

She nodded and opened her mouth to respond, until two ginormous pieces of fudgy chocolate cake landed in front of them. Deciding that words could wait, she immediately dug in.

Sherlock watched on, unable to hold his smile back.

Xxx

He was right. They were on their feet. Sherlock had insisted that they take a walk to a set of small hills a short distance from the cabins, and they had done just that. Now, standing in the breezy evening, the Scottish moonlight beaming down of them, they made their way to the final peak.

Sherlock stepped to the top of the small hill, looking behind him to make sure that Molly was close behind. Although her legs were considerably shorter, she managed to get to his level, holding onto him for balance. With a short thank you, she steadied herself, and looked around.

What she saw nearly brought her to tears. The full moon, so bright in the sky, projected down onto the water, only mere meters from them. This illuminated the entire landscape, causing the trees and the hills to positively glow at the late hour. And while the wind shook the trees, the animals croaked and growled, the only thing Molly could hear was the beating of her own heart.

Sherlock glanced over at her, his face unsure. "I read about this phenomenon when I was a child. About how illuminating this part of the country could be. I've always wanted to come here to see it. And, Molly, the truth is—"

Molly raised her hand, stopping his words. She turned to look at him, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. "Sherlock… This… It's incredible. Thank you for sharing it with me."

He swallowed and nodded, his eyes gazing into hers. Blue on brown. Only the sound of their beating hearts filling their ears.

Despite what his brain warned him, he leaned in.

And despite what her brain warned her, she did as well.

As her lips just ghosted his, her mobile went off, blaring a ringtone she only assigned to Thomas into the quiet air.

 _Mum._

Molly swallowed and jumped away, racing to answer her mobile. Sherlock frowned and took a step back, shoving his hands into his pockets, focusing his attention on the water.

"Thomas? What's wrong?" She gasped, forcing herself to take steady breaths.

The silence on the other end caused her heart to shatter. A masculine sigh filled her ears, before her older brother's voice broke the quiet.

"They've said no, Molls. She can't get the treatment done. They think it's too risky and refuse to let her leave. I got the denial earlier and…"

Molly hugged herself, tears pouring down her cheeks, feeling completely helpless. Sherlock watched on, unsure of what to do.

"She doesn't want chemo, Molly. The numbers aren't on her side and she doesn't want to spend the remainder of her time having the life sucked out of her."

Molly let out a sob and started to pace. "Who gives a fuck about the numbers? Since when have we let some statistics determine our livelihood?"

Thomas sighed, his voice sad and tired. "Molly, we can't make her do anything she doesn't want to do. She thinks this rejection is a sign."

"A sign of what?" She sobbed out, her body shaking in the cool air.

"A sign that her time has come," he whispered.

Molly hiccupped and wiped at her cheeks, smearing her makeup in the process. "So that's it then? We're giving up? Why can't we appeal?"

"Molly, the money and time that would be needed for an appeal would—"

"Who cares about money, Thomas? This is our mother we're talking about!" She practically screamed.

"Dammit Molly!" He yelled back, his angry voice shocking even Molly. "We don't have fucking time. Don't you understand? There's nothing we can do. If she wants to prolong her life, and maybe have a small chance at remission, she goes through chemo. But that's it. And she doesn't want to."

Molly continued to sob, clutching her mobile with shaking hands. "Thomas, please… We can't just give up!"

"Molly," he began, his voice breaking, "I need to go now. We can discuss this later. I love you."

The call ended, causing Molly to toss her mobile and break into another fit of sobs. Sherlock swallowed and walked over to the patch of grass, picking up the device. He tentatively approached her, unsure of whether this was something he should be comforting her with, or letting her cry it out on her own.

"Molly…" he began softly.

She looked up and met his concerned gaze, continuing to sob. With shaking limbs, she jumped forward, pulling him into a hug, her face buried in his chest. Sherlock frowned and pulled her closer, rubbing her back slowly.

 _So, this is why people hug. I finally understand._

Molly pressed her soaking wet cheek to his jacket and gazed up, meeting his worried eyes. "Oh, it's awful, Sherlock," she cried out, "There are experimental treatments in the States, the only real glimmer of hope, and they've…" she kept sobbing, grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket as she cried into his chest.

Sherlock frowned and pulled her closer, continuing to gaze down at her. "They've what, Molly?"

"They've said no!" She cried out, "They won't let her get the treatment! And now she refuses to go through chemo because the odds are so low!"

He sighed and kissed her head, holding her as she continued to cry. He was at a loss for words.

 _She could comfort me when Mary died and I have absolutely no idea what to say when the tables have turned._

"She's just going to let herself die!" She croaked out, finally starting to take deep breaths, "even though she knows that I need her. That Thomas needs her. That she's too young to die!"

Sherlock frowned and pulled away. He grabbed her hands and met her tearful eyes. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

She shook her head and began to walk back, her feet working on pure muscle memory since her brain was too jumbled to function. "No. I need to go. I need to see her. Convince her to go through chemo. Even if there's a bloody half a percent chance, she should do it!"

Sherlock frowned and ran after her. "Molly, it's so late. You should wait until the morning…"

"No!" She cried out, continuing her walk back to the cabin, the moonlight no longer warming her insides as it had before, "Every minute she isn't on chemo makes it the more likely that she's going to die! The experimental results were so incredible! Ninety percent!"

Sherlock frowned and ran after her. "Molly, please…"

"I need you to drive me to the train station." She demanded as she desperately wiped at the mascara marks on her cheeks.

He swallowed and whipped out his mobile, quickly sending off a message. He ran after Molly, who had made her way back into the cabin, and was furiously stuffing her belongings into her duffle bag. At the ping of his mobile and a glance at the message, Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Mycroft has sent a helicopter to take you to Leeds. It's being dispatched from Edinburgh so it should be here in about twenty minutes," He told her, watching with sad eyes as she slipped a new jumper over her head.

"Thank you, Sherlock," was all she managed. She dropped to the sofa and buried her face in her knees, too devastated to speak.

Sherlock frowned and sat beside her, knowing no words would help the situation. So instead he sat there, his hand on her back, promising himself that he would help her however he could.

 _I owe Molly Hooper my life._

Xxx

As she stared out the window of the hired car that Mycroft had sent to pick her up, at an air field only about ten minutes from the hospital in Leeds, her tears had dried, but her brain and heart continued to function on overdrive.

What was she to do? Her mother's best chance at survival had been ripped from underneath them, and now, instead of even taking a chance towards life, her mother was deciding to quit.

Was Molly allowed to be devastated by the decision? It wasn't her life. It wasn't her decision to make. Was she being selfish?

 _She's my mother! My only mum._

She pressed her head against the window and took a shaky breath, wondering how the evening had gone from such beauty and enjoyment to heart break. That view… The moonlight…

 _Sherlock._

As she wiped at her cheeks, desperately trying to think of anything but her mother for the next few moments, another thought crossed her mind.

It had just occurred to her that Sherlock Holmes had not taken her to accompany him on a case. He had taken her on a holiday.

Xxx

Meanwhile, now alone in a cabin in Scotland, Sherlock sat on the sofa, staring intently at the dying blaze in the fireplace. He clenched his mobile in his hand and took a breath.

"Are you aware of what you're asking?" the other voice asked, for once unsure of the request.

"Yes."

"So, then you must know how difficult and verging on impossible this will be?"

"Nothing is impossible for you," Sherlock replied, his voice tired. Sad. Worried.

"Oh, flattery will not aid you now."

"Please. Consider it an IOU."

"You have many of those. I'll do my best."

"Mycroft. Please. If this is the last thing in the world you do for me, I'll be eternally grateful. Just make this happen," he asked one final time, his voice desperate.

"Of course, brother mine. But it will take some time."

The call ended. Sherlock dropped his mobile and shut his eyes, wondering if Mycroft could truly work miracles.

 _I hope so._


	23. An Obstinate, Headstrong Girl

" _My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me."_

Xxx

Molly took the next four days off work, spending every waking moment in the hospital with her brother and mum, desperately trying to convince her mother to consider chemotherapy. But the results of the conversation were always the same, leaving them both in tears. The most recent one had been especially brutal.

" _Molly," Her mother insisted, her eyes weary, "Is it really so wrong for me to go off on my own terms? To let God decide when it's my time to go?"_

 _Molly frowned and looked at Thomas, who preoccupied himself with the view from the window. "Mum, please… We just want a chance for you to meet your grandchildren and live out the rest of your life…"_

 _She sighed and shook her head, giving Molly a sorrowful smile. "I've already lived out my life. And I'm quite happy. I have two beautiful children. What more could I ask for?"_

 _Molly began to cry harder. "Please, mum, just reconsider!"_

 _She brushed her daughter's hair out of her face and pressed her lips to her forehead. "I love you, Molly. Perhaps one day you'll understand."_

As she gazed out the train window, on her way back to London, she couldn't help the constant feeling of unease eating at her stomach.

 _What am I going to do?_

Xxx

"I'm sorry. What did you just say?"

John and Rosie had finally returned after their long holiday in Brighton, and were currently visiting Baker Street. Sitting in his chair, with Rosie playing at his feet, John was furiously rubbing aloe on his red skin.

"Must I repeat myself?" Sherlock droned on, staring out the window with a concerned look across his features.

"Yes, because it sounded like you said that you took Molly on a holiday to Scotland!"

Sherlock blinked. "Yes. Precisely. That's what I said."

John's mouth dropped open. "Sherlock… That's… so…. unlike you."

"How so?"

"It's so… romantic."

"I'm romantic."

John practically snorted. "No, you're a dick."

Sherlock shrugged and dropped to his chair. He sighed. "I lied. I told her I had a case. Which I did. But, of course, I solved it before we left. She had a lovely time. We almost kissed."

John raised an eyebrow. "Almost? And for someone who went on a romantic holiday, you look pretty bothered."

"Her mother is dying," He added softly, his eyes locked on Rosie, who currently entertained herself with her dolls on the ground, "They applied for permission to leave the country and take her to the States for experimental treatment. She was denied, and it sounds like she's refusing to undergo chemo because of the low chance of remission."

John frowned and shifted in his chair. "That's horrible. Poor Molly."

Sherlock sighed. "I know. It was a troubling end to our trip. I didn't know what to do to help her."

"Just stand by her, Sherlock. That's all you can do. Your support is more than enough."

Sherlock nodded and glanced at his mobile, praying for a swift response from Mycroft.

 _Oh, brother mine, please work your magic._

Xxx

It had been a rough week. Getting through work had been absolutely brutal, especially when all she could think about was her poor mother, laying helplessly in a hospital bed so far away. Even though she spoke to Thomas and Ellen every night, waiting until the weekend to take the train up to visit was incredibly hard on her heart.

And she had rarely seen anyone since her mom was admitted to the hospital. Her weekdays were spent working and her weekends were spent up in Leeds. George had dropped by intermittently, kind enough to bring food, and Meena had popped up a few times, volunteering to feed Toby whenever she was gone.

John had been kind enough to send her flowers, volunteering to help her if she ever needed it. But, she had yet to hear from Sherlock since their trip to Scotland, and she tried to tell herself that her damaged heart didn't care.

She glanced back at her mobile, as she sat on the tube, her eyes landing on a Thursday dinner reservation for 7pm. She vaguely remembered agreeing to the date almost a month ago, as George insisted that this place was extremely difficult to get a table at. Apparently, it was frequented by the posh, and an incoming text message from her boyfriend reminded her of the dress code for such an exclusive place.

As she looked up the restaurant, and mentally tried to figure out what in her closet would be appropriate to wear, Sherlock's words filled her head, causing her to freeze.

 _He's going to propose to you._

She nearly dropped her mobile as the doors opened at the next stop.

 _It's happening._

She grabbed her bag and hurried off the train, her mind on overdrive. Did she want to marry George? Could she be happy with him forever? Was it even right for her to be thinking about her future at a time like this?

As she barreled through the tube stop, her head in the clouds, she wasn't paying attention as she slammed into a tall, well-dressed gentleman, whose curls fell into his eyes. Hands steadied her. Familiar hands.

She gasped as she looked at the man. "Tom?"

Tom smiled softly and nodded. "Hello, Molly. How have you been?"

Xxx

John entered Lestrade's office with Rosie strapped to his chest. Greg sat up and smiled at his mate, but quickly became confused when he noticed the lack of a certain consulting detective.

"John," Lestrade began, "Where's Sherlock? This is big. We have two dead bodies. Anderson fears we have a serial killer in the making."

John sighed and shuffled on his feet, his hands migrating to Rosie's tiny body. He allowed her to play with his fingers as he focused on Greg.

"Yeah, about that. He's not coming."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean he's not coming? Surely this must be exciting enough for him? Two dead bodies, identical names but no connections, left in two different rivers… Come on!"

John sighed. "Truthfully Greg, I don't know where he is. But he's been weird the past week, and he just disappeared with a bag and climbed into Mycroft's car a few hours ago."

"Jesus. Must be serious if he's not even telling you."

"Well," John considered the situation, "He's been going through a lot."

"With Molly?" Greg practically smirked.

John laughed. "Yeah, with Molly. But… Things are getting messy."

"Messy?"

"Her boyfriend is going to propose. And her mum is dying."

Greg frowned. "Jeez, that's bloody awful. Poor Molly. And she inspired me too," He shook his head, clearly upset.

"Inspired you?" John asked.

"She asked me about marrying Charlotte and I was initially hesitant but… I proposed!"

John blinked. "You're getting married again?"

Lestrade grinned and nodded excitedly. "Isn't that wonderful?"

John nodded, too surprised to even speak. "Yes. I guess so."

As they said their goodbyes, and Greg complained one final time about having to allow Anderson to lead the investigation, John couldn't get over Sherlock's absence.

 _And with Mycroft of all people?_

But as he exited the station, and gave Rosie a soft smile, he realized Sherlock's intentions.

"Oh, you devoted, selfless, dick." He muttered, laughing as he made his way to his car.

Xxx

If someone had told Molly that she'd be having coffee with Tom at a café in her local tube station, she probably would have laughed.

Yet here she was, sipping a cup a bit too bitter for her liking, staring at the familiar man across from her.

"It's nice to see you again. It's been so long," He began, smiling as he added some sugar to his cup.

Molly just nodded, although her eyes landed on a glimmering gold wedding band on his fingers. She gasped.

"Tom, you got married?" She asked, continuing to stare at the ring.

He coughed and sipped his drink, nodding slowly. "Yeah, I did. About a month ago." He blushed and looked away, "To Lydia, actually."

Molly nodded, recognizing the name. Lydia had been Tom's childhood love, and her mention always put a strain on their relationship. Yet, she couldn't help but be happy for him. Tom may have not been the man for her, but he was certainly a good guy.

"That's great, Tom. Congrats. I know you cared deeply about her."

He smiled and nodded, beginning to play with the wedding band. "Thank you. Seeing her that day…" He shook his head, still grinning like a moron, "Everything finally felt right, you know?"

She smiled sadly and nodded. "Yes. I understand."

They grew quiet, both occupying themselves with their drinks. Finally, Tom looked back over at Molly.

"So, you and Sherlock finally get together?"

Molly blinked and coughed on the coffee she had been sipping. "Come again?"

Tom gave her a look. "Sherlock Holmes. The detective? The one you had feelings for throughout our entire relationship?"

Molly whimpered and shook her head. "That's not—"

Tom held up his hand and gave her another pointed look. "Oh, Molly, come on. As soon as that bloke showed back up from wherever he was, I lost you. I know you tried. I could tell that you didn't want to fancy him, that you wanted to love me but… It was pretty obvious how you felt."

He laughed and thanked the waitress as she refilled his cup, "Not to mention he fancied you."

Molly paled. "What do you mean he fancied me?"

Tom rolled his eyes. "Seriously, Molly? The looks he gave me every time I was around… You'd think I murdered his bloody dog or something. And then that short doctor and his wife were always meddling," He shook his head and laughed.

Her brain was on overdrive, trying to process the concept of Sherlock fancying her as far back as her engagement with Tom, to just the mention of Mary making her heart hurt. She just sat there, staring into her coffee. Tom noticed and frowned.

"Molly? You two aren't together?"

Molly took a shaky breath and met Tom's kind, familiar eyes. "No. We're not. In fact, I've been seeing someone else. And I… I think he's going to propose to me."

Tom cleared his throat and sipped his own coffee, watching Molly carefully. "I realize you probably don't care much for my opinion. But I still consider you a friend. We were together for a while. Time I appreciate and will never forget. But, while we were together, I couldn't get over this nagging feeling in my heart whenever I thought of Lydia. Our time together. Her voice. Her face. What it felt like to kiss her…."

Molly shifted in her chair, unsure of where her ex-fiancé's babbling would lead to. Finally, he continued speaking.

"I imagine the same was occurring with you and Sherlock. So, I guess my point is, this new bloke… If you wear his ring on your finger, will those thoughts disappear?"

Molly looked down at her hand, remembering what it felt like to carry that diamond around for the duration of her relationship with Tom. She remembered the inability to imagine a grand wedding, or a luxurious honeymoon, or Christmas celebrations with him and her family, or their children, running around free.

But she could remember all the times she spent in the lab with Sherlock, or the times he'd join her for ice cream and crap telly, or their adventures solving cases, and babysitting Rosie, and…

Then his face! Those cheeks, those blue eyes, those delicious lips….

The lips. Oh, the feeling of his lips on hers. Just their ghost of a kiss in Scotland, the gentle brush of her lips on his before her mobile rang, changing her life forever…

Tom watched with curious eyes. Finally, Molly realized his attention and met his gaze, her eyes suddenly wet.

"It was nice catching up with you, Tom. I should go." She forced out, quickly grabbing a few coins to leave on the table. Tom watched with a frown.

As she gathered her bag and jacket, Tom rose, keeping his eyes locked on her.

"Molly?"

"Yes?" She asked, her eyes diverted from his curious gaze.

"Don't get yourself entangled in another engagement because you feel like you have to get married. You did it once and you weren't happy. I think you and I both know who your heart wants. That much hasn't changed in a while."

"Thank you, Tom." Was all she managed, before she hurried out of the café.

Tom sighed and collapsed back into his chair, wondering how on Earth Molly and the sociopathic detective still weren't together. But with a glance at his wedding band, he decided he didn't care.

 _That's not my problem anymore._

Xxx

Molly was unsure how she ended up in Chelsea, especially since she had only been two blocks from her flat when she left Tom. Yet, there she was, standing in a pristine elevator, soft jazz hitting her ears as she was taken to the sixth floor of the building.

 _What am I doing here?_

She stopped in front of his door and knocked, waiting with calm breaths for her boyfriend to open the door. A few moments passed before George appeared in front of her, grinning in surprise.

"Molly! What a surprise! Are you hungry? I'm making pork loin," he announced, quickly ushering her into his flat.

Molly cleared her throat and stood to the side, her eyes looking all over the flat. She took a breath. "I don't eat pork, George."

He made a face. "You don't? Really? Since when?"

"Since I had a pet pig when I was six."

He frowned a bit and nodded. "Right. Of course. I knew that. I'll whip you up something else then."

He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Molly to take in the flat. Her eyes landed on the balcony door.

 _Sherlock._

She shut her eyes and shook her head. With another shaky breath, she looked over towards the kitchen. "Would you move into my flat?"

The rustling in the kitchen stopped. A moment later, George popped his head out, looking at Molly curiously. "Your flat? Well, Molly, I just assumed you'd move into mine when you were ready."

"Why yours and not mine?"

George scratched at his neck and bit his lip. "Well, I mean, I just figured that…"

"Why did you figure anything?"

He let out a groan and leaned against the wall. "You know how it is, Molly. My place is bigger, in a better area, closer to—"

"Closer to what? Your job? Your friends? What about my job? My friends?"

George cleared his throat and frowned. "Well, it would be temporary. We could always find a new place, better for both of us."

"Right. But in the meantime, why would I have to make the sacrifices? Your place doesn't allow pets. Where would Toby go?"

He frowned and crossed his arms. "Do we have to have this discussion right now, Molly? I know you have a lot going on and I don't want—"

Molly shook her head and held up her hand, telling him to stop. "This needs to be discussed if you're going to propose."

His face turned red. He swallowed. "How did you—"

"I need you answer a question for me. Where would we go on our honeymoon?"

George cleared his throat and thought about it. "Well, I hadn't thought about it too much since we'd have to worry about the wedding first, but I thought maybe to Bali? My boss has a wonderful guest home we could stay in."

Molly shut her eyes and took a deep breath. "And our children? What would we name our children?"

He smiled gently. "For a son, Charles, after my father. And for a daughter, Katherine, after my grandmother."

Molly nodded and looked away. "I asked about _our_ children. You told me what you'd name _your_ children."

George made a face. "I don't understand."

"Well, you just assumed I'd be in agreement, yeah? But maybe I'd want to name a child after losing my dear friend Mary, or after my father, or after my bloody mother who is going to be dead before I ever have a child!" Tears began to stream down her face.

George stared at her, mouth agape, unsure of what he had said. "Molly, I'm sorry if I—"

"What type of cake would we get, hmm? What flavor would I want our wedding cake?" She choked out, ignoring the hot tears running down her cheeks.

George frowned. "I'm sure you'd want something with fruit—"

"Wrong. Chocolate. I get everything chocolate. How could you not have picked that up by now?" She hiccupped and closed her eyes.

"Molly, I—"

She turned and opened her eyes, gazing into his confused emerald orbs. She took another shuttering breath. "What would be my ideal evening? We finish work. We have a date. What would I want to do?"

George frowned and began to gnaw on his lip. "Well… I… We'd go to a nice restaurant. Have dinner. Maybe take my boat out if the weather was nice…"

Molly sniffled and shook her head. "No, George," she began, her voice sad, "I fucking hate boats. And my ideal night would be eating takeaway, watching crappy telly with my boyfriend, just enjoying his presence."

She began to pace, hugging her arms to her chest. "I hate running, and I hate sailing, and I hate your stupid healthy diet. I hate the restaurants we eat at. I hate your friends, and your sexist boss, and the parties you attend, and the marathons you run. I hate how your order for me, and how you know nothing about me, and most of all, I bloody hate football!"

She collapsed onto his sofa, beginning to cry, the day proving too much for her fragile emotions. Between her mother's state, her thoughts on Sherlock, seeing Tom, and now George… It was too much.

George swallowed and walked towards her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. He frowned. "Molly, I know you're stressed out and devastated about your mum's condition, but—"

Molly shook her head and looked up, meeting his concerned gaze. "I can't marry you, George. I'm not the woman for you. I can't be your date to these grand parties, or accompany you on outings on your yacht, or hold a bloody sign at the finish line of every one of your marathons. That's not me."

She rose to her feet and turned away, wiping away some of her tears in the process. "You're not the man for me, not matter how desperately I tried to convince myself that you were."

George's concerned face finally contorted to anger. "This is about your bloody mate, isn't it? Sherlock?" He growled and shook his head, beginning to pace. "I knew I should have put my foot down around him. I knew he was going to cause problems!"

Molly turned back to look at him. "Enough!" She yelled, causing George to stop and face her.

"This has nothing to do with Sherlock! Even if he wasn't a factor, it wouldn't change a thing. You can't make me happy, George. I'm sure you could make ninety-nine percent of women happy, but I am not one of them."

George shook his head and turned away, clearly angry. "I shouldn't have listened to John. I knew that nutter was going to cause problems."

Molly took a deep breath and began to walk to the door. "I can't deal with this. All men are the bloody fucking same! Why doesn't it ever occur to any of you that you're at fault for my unhappiness! Not another fucking bloke. I can't marry you because you know nothing about me. We are nothing alike. You're incredibly selfish, even if you shower me in gifts."

She moved to the door and wiped away the last of her tears, unwilling to meet George in the eye again. "Thank you," she whispered, "Our time together has been enjoyable. You're a good guy George, but I just… I can't be with you. Especially not right now."

With that, she disappeared out of the flat, her head filled with what-ifs for the second time that day.

Xxx

Sherlock stared out the window, his hands gripping his knees, his thoughts all over the place. Mycroft glanced over at his younger brother and sighed.

"What's done is done. There's no need to obsess over it now."

"False," Sherlock shot back, his eyes still locked on the disappearing landscape, "It's only just begun."

Mycroft sighed and nodded. Sherlock leaned back and shut his eyes, allowing the brothers to continue their car ride in silence.

 _Sentiment. I finally understand Mycroft's suggestion to avoid it._


	24. Passion Stronger than Virtue

" _Do not consider me now as an elegant female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the truth from her heart."_

Xxx

Molly was back at her flat, stuffing her face with pizza, Toby snuggled into her lap, desperately trying to forget how her life was so gloriously falling apart. She had cried more in the past few months of her life than she ever had before, blaming Sherlock's antics and her mother's diagnosis as the cause for most of them.

And while she desperately wanted to blame the tears currently soaking her face on her mother's diagnosis, she knew lying to herself would just make her hurt more.

Because here she was, hitting her mid-thirties, again single. Her two most recent relationship had both been long-term, and had both ended with her realizing that neither of those men could make her happy.

Molly knew deep down that there was only one man who could truly do that. Unfortunately, for all his wonderful qualities and recent confessions, he historically was still manipulative, unstable, selfish, and on occasion, flat out rude.

Which Sherlock could she trust?

She let out another sob, sick of her relationship with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Could she believe the tender Sherlock, the one who held her close as she cried over her mother's diagnosis, the one who could play for hours on end with Rosie, the one who told her to follow her heart, to be happy?

Or would she be stuck with the reckless Sherlock, one who would disappear for weeks, perhaps months, closing himself off whenever things went bad, quick to resort to bullying when upset, partial to drug use for a release?

As she ran her fingers through Toby's fur, she came to a decision.

Given her mother's condition, the last thing she could focus on was love. If she was meant to find happiness, it would have to wait until things… got better.

She worked on cleaning up her face, until noise from her mobile distracted her. Glancing at the screen, her brother's name flashed across, practically making her sick. She grabbed it and accepted the call, letting out a breathless, "Thomas?"

Her brother sniffled from the other end of the call, making Molly shake in anticipation of his words. When his soft voice filled her ears, she almost vomited from her nerves.

"Molly, they've changed their minds. She can get the treatment. And… it's paid! There was an article in the paper, or something, a Kickstarter. I don't know. But we leave tonight," he rushed out, his heavy breathing filling her ears.

Molly bolted up, unsure of his words. "What? What do you mean? She can get the treatment?"

"Yes!" Thomas cried out, clearly shuffling around, "Ellen just emailed your flight information. Hurry up. It leaves at 9."

"What?" She croaked out, still too surprised to comprehend his words.

"We'll meet you in New York! We're leaving now. Please, just go to the airport."

Molly stumbled to her bedroom, mobile still on her ear, desperately searching for a suit case. "Thomas, are you sure? I don't understand how—"

His voice cut her off. "Molly, please. I have to go. I'll see you soon. I love you."

As the call ended, Molly finally found her suitcase, and seemingly in a trance, began to toss clothes in.

 _What month is it? What's the weather like in New York?_

She let out a frustrated cry and began to dig through her drawers, trying to find her passport. With one final tug, zip, and cry, she was out the door, desperately texting Meena to feed Toby while she was gone.

 _Thank you, god._

Xxx

One seven-hour flight later, and a drive to Manhattan in a town car that she wasn't going to question Thomas on how it was paid for, she arrived at a hotel that she could only imagine staying in. Stumbling inside, clad in an old pair of jeans and University jumper, she was clearly out of place. An employee noticed and rushed over, quickly grabbing her suit case.

"Good evening, Miss Hooper. I trust you had a pleasant flight over?" He asked, all smiles.

 _I thought New Yorkers were supposed to be mean._

Molly just nodded, too tired and confused to even communicate. "Yeah… I was told to come here. My brother has a reservation."

The employee nodded, still smiling. "Of course. Mr. and Mrs. Hooper checked in a few hours ago, but I believe they are currently at Mount Sinai. Let me take you to your room, and we'll have dinner brought up shortly."

Molly followed the man in a daze, still unsure if she was in fact in a post-pizza coma, asleep on her sofa in London. That feeling only intensified when he opened her door, leading to what could only be described as a luxury hotel room with windows overlooking the lights of the city.

"Please let us know if there's anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable. My name is Anthony if you need me." He set her bag down and handed her a key card before disappearing, leaving Molly to stare at the lights, suddenly in another fit of tears.

 _Jeez Molly, why are you crying now?_

Xxx

Sherlock held his hands over his face, index fingers tapping gently above his lips, his mind all over. John gazed over from beside him, shoving another handful of peanuts in his mouth. Moving an earbud out of his ear, John gave his mate a curious look.

"Are you really not going to tell me anything about our case? I left my daughter with a batty old lady to cross the pond with you. I'm owed some sort of explanation."

"I'm afraid you won't like it." Sherlock offered, his eyes still shut.

John groaned. "Try me, Sherlock."

"You'll be informed soon enough. Eat your peanuts and I'll buy you a hot dog when we land."

John contemplated the offer. "A bagel. And pizza. And a souvenir for Rosie."

Sherlock scowled. "I should have gone alone."

John shrugged and replaced his ear bud, back to watching his movie.

Xxx

The next morning, Molly entered the unfamiliar hospital, still anxious and beyond confused. Even though the hotel bed was the most comfortable thing she had ever laid in, she had slept for only a few hours, sick to her stomach with the possibilities of the day.

Of the operation.

Molly swallowed, suddenly regretting the large breakfast she had eaten before leaving. She turned the corner and found her mother's name. With a deep breath, she entered, although immediately freezing at the sight.

Her mother was placed in a ginormous suite, her windows overlooking the city, the entire room decorated in balloons and 'Get Well Soon' decorations. She blinked and looked over at Ellen, who sat holding her mother's hand.

"Molly!" Ellen jumped up and pulled her sister-in-law into a hug, "I'm so sorry Thomas and I didn't drop by last night. As soon as we got in, we had to make sure Anne was settled before we got to the hospital. We were sure you were tired too."

Molly just nodded. "It's okay. I understand. I'm just so confused by—"

Ellen shook her head, her smile bright. "Don't worry, okay? Just relax. Her procedure starts in forty minutes. I'm going to meet Thomas in the cafeteria."

She pressed a kiss to Molly's forehead before hurrying out. Molly swallowed and sat in the chair she previously occupied, grabbing her mother's hand.

Her mom just smiled at her. "You didn't need to come here for me."

Molly sniffled and shook her head. "Of course, I did. I'm so worried about you."

Her mother leaned over, wincing as she did so, to brush a few loose strands of Molly's hair out of her face. "I am so lucky to have such wonderful children. You and Thomas have made me happier than you could ever imagine."

Molly hiccupped and hugged her mother, conscious of the tears streaming down her face. "And when you get to meet your eventual grandchildren, you'll love them just as much."

Her mother nodded and kissed her daughter's head, beginning to cry as well. "Stay with me until I go in, will you?"

"Of course."

Xxx

Forty minutes later, Molly and Thomas followed Dr. Garcia and his assistants, as their mother was pushed on her gurney to the operating theater. Dr. Garcia explained a few last-minute clarifications before assuring them everything would be okay.

Their mother bid them a farewell, pressing soft kisses to their cheeks before she disappeared, leaving the two to stare at the swinging doors. Molly looked over at her brother, tears streaming down her face.

"This will work, right?" She asked, her voice small, feeling ever like a little girl.

And just as her brother had when her gold fish died, and her father died, and when Billy Thorne broke her heart at age fourteen, he pulled her into his arms.

"Yes, Molls. Everything will be okay."

Xxx

Sherlock sat in the café, holding his coffee close, scowling as he looked at his friend. John, unaware of his mate's angry glare, was chomping away happily on a bagel, wearing a blue Yankees ball cap.

"Will you take that bloody thing off? Why are you wearing it?" Sherlock finally asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

John raised an eyebrow and took another bite of bagel. "When in America, do as the Americans do."

"You look like a git."

"Well, so do you, in that jacket! It's not even 19 outside."

Sherlock shook his head angrily, continuously glancing at his mobile. John sighed and crossed his arms, focusing on his friend.

"Out with it. Normally I'd be thrilled for a holiday to New York, but we aren't doing anything! What's going on?"

Sherlock sighed and focused on his mug, running his fingers along the edges of the cup. "I may have meddled in Molly's mother's affairs."

John's face fell. "Sherlock… What the fuck did you do?"

He cleared his throat and brought his drink back to his lips.

"I saved her life."

Xxx

The operation was a success. Well, in the sense that it had gone well— the true effects of the procedure, and whether her tumors would shrink or disappear wouldn't be known for another week or so, and then perhaps months. Molly sat beside her mother's bed, desperately trying to stop the silent tears from falling down her face. But, it was hard not to. It had been such a stressful day.

"I love you, mum." She whispered, before leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to her sleeping mother's cheek.

She sat back down and checked her mobile, making sure that her boss hadn't sent her anything new. She had woken up to a phone call from a very concerned Mike Stamford, who wanted to know why she hadn't shown up to work. While he of course had been understanding, and allowed Molly to take the next two weeks to be with her mother, she assured him that he could still send her autopsies for second opinions.

Dr. Garcia entered and gave Molly a pleasant smile. "Let me know if you have any further questions. We expect to start seeing changes in five to seven days. In the meantime, she's going to be well taken care of here."

Molly nodded and sniffled. "Thank you so much, Doctor. I can't thank you enough for your help."

He waved his hand. "I'm just doing my job. Besides, if you have anyone to thank, it should be—"

Ellen entered, holding a bag of food. She smiled politely at the Doctor before settling next to Molly.

"Thank you, Dr. Garcia," Ellen said with a telling smile.

He nodded and left, leaving Molly with a raised eyebrow.

"What was that about?" She asked, watching Ellen unpack the food.

"Oh, nothing. I got you chicken biryani."

"Thank you. Where's Thomas? He left an hour ago and didn't say anything."

Ellen just smiled. "He just had to run out quickly. He'll be back."

Xxx

John glared at Sherlock, continuing his yelling lecture that had begun while they were at the café, and continued back to the hotel. "You can't fucking meddle in people's lives! Don't you understand that by now? I—"

He stopped speaking as the door to their hotel room opened. In front, a tired, man with friendly eyes, strolled in, Mycroft closely behind.

Sherlock looked over at the two, clearing his throat. "Thomas. Mycroft. How did things go?"

Thomas swallowed and nodded, a small smile growing on his lips. "We won't know for a week but… The procedure had no issues. So, hopefully good."

"She is resting, as we speak," Mycroft began, as he examined the hotel room, "And she will remain there for the following week, or at least until she is comfortable enough to begin rehabilitation back at home."

John blinked and looked between the three men, clearly confused. "Okay. What the fuck is going on? Who is this guy?"

Sherlock scowled and gave John a menacing look. "Could you possibly have more couth? This is Molly's brother Thomas, and their mother is currently recovering from a procedure. Just eat the pizza I bought you."

John frowned. "I had no idea since you wouldn't bloody tell me anything!"

Mycroft sighed and looked at Sherlock. "They're comfortable here. On the sixteenth floor. Your flight leaves this evening."

Sherlock nodded and looked over at Thomas. "Keep me updated. Please."

"Of course. I can't thank you enough."

"Please, don't bother."

Mycroft led Thomas out, leaving Sherlock to gaze out the window, and John to stand with his arms crossed, mouth agape.

"What the bloody fuck is going on? We're already leaving? What did you do?!"

Sherlock sighed and glared at John. "Come along. We have six hours. Let's see your bloody tourist shit and I'll explain everything."

John practically pouted and grabbed his coat, but still followed Sherlock out.


	25. Mrs Wickham

" _Those who do not complain are never pitied."_

Xxx

A week had come and gone. Molly was waiting anxiously as tests were done on her mother, waiting to see if the treatment would pay off. Her mother was watching an old sitcom on the telly, and Ellen and Thomas were flipping through month old magazines.

As selfish as the situation was, Molly was happy to have spent time with her family, missing them more so in the past few weeks then she ever had. While the circumstances could have been better, she was delighted to wake up and see her mum and Thomas every day. Not to mention, Meena and her boss had sent her sweet words of encouragement. George had tried to text her, which she promptly ignored.

Still no word from Sherlock.

She sighed, but immediately bolted to attention as Dr. Garcia entered, files in his hands. He gave the group a calm smile.

"We see some shrinkage already," he paused as the group let out cries of excitement, "But there is a long road ahead."

Molly, who had begun to cry again, wiped at her eyes. "What now? What happens?"

"Well, we wait. When she returns to the UK, she needs to have scans done every week to watch the shrinkage. We may decide to start her on chemo to completely clear them out, but at the present, it's a waiting game."

Molly embraced Thomas, sobbing into his chest. He rubbed her back, smiling at his tearful mother. "I told you Mum. Everything will be okay."

Xxx

Molly and Ellen sat outside of the hospital, breathing in the city air, happy to feel sunlight on their skin. Thomas had remained in the room with their mother, leaving the women to a few moments of fresh air.

Molly looked over at her sister-in-law, the happiest she had been in days. "I was so scared. And now, things are just going to get better."

Ellen smiled and nodded. "This is such great news. It had been such a hard time for your brother," She frowned and began to pick at her nails. "I was so worried about him. He was barely sleeping, he couldn't work, he was spreading himself so thin, trying to convince your mother to consider chemo and so terribly upset about the decision, and then Sherlock showed up and thankfully everything—"

Molly interrupted Ellen, her eyes wide, "I'm sorry. Did you just say Sherlock?"

Ellen paled and swallowed. "No, no, I… I—"

"Ellen. You said Sherlock. I heard you say his name."

She whimpered and cursed, dropping her gaze to her hands. "I wasn't supposed to say anything," she mumbled.

Molly brought her hand to her mouth, suddenly feeling sick. "Ellen… How is Sherlock involved in this?"

Ellen frowned and met Molly's eyes.

Molly took a shuddering breath. Words were not needed.

She just knew.

 _Xxx_

 _The past month had been the hardest of Ellen's life. Having to watch her husband fall apart, knowing the toll that his mother's condition was taking on him, practically destroyed her. And there was little she could do but hold his hand, giving empty promises that things would be okay. That everything would get better._

 _But it wouldn't. Not really. Because even if her mother-in-law were to begin chemotherapy, her remaining time was pushed to nine months, instead of its current estimate at six. The numbers were scary. It didn't help that Thomas knew them all by heart, and they never failed to bring him to tears._

 _At the present, she was preparing tea in the kitchen, as Thomas washed some of his clothes. They had pretty much spent all their free time at the hospital since his mother's admission, and this was the first time in a fortnight that they had been in their house together._

 _Thomas entered the kitchen, his eyes tired. He grabbed a bag of crisps and dropped to a seat at the table, rubbing his temples. Ellen frowned and handed him a cup of tea._

" _Have you rung Molly? When—"_

 _A loud knock at the door distracted the couple. Before Thomas could get up, Ellen rubbed his shoulders and hurried for the door. Although she wanted her husband to sit and relax, he hurried after her, watching from over her shoulder as she opened the door._

 _At the sight of the two men on the other side, Ellen turned and looked at Thomas, clearly confused._

" _Sherlock Holmes?" Thomas asked, narrowing his eyes in confusion._

 _The curly-haired man nodded and removed his gloves. "Thomas and Ellen Hooper. We meet again. This is my older brother, Mycroft. We'd like to speak to you."_

 _Thomas and Ellen exchanged looks before stepping aside, letting the brothers enter. Ellen scurried back to the kitchen, quick to prepare tea for the men. Thomas cleared his throat and led them into the sitting room, watching both men curiously._

" _What's this about? Don't you live in London?" Thomas asked._

" _Yes. We do. But I wanted to discuss this with you in person," Sherlock began._

" _Discuss what?"_

" _Your mother's treatment options." Sherlock announced, thanking Ellen as she set two cups of tea down on the table._

 _Thomas shifted in his chairs, watching Sherlock wearily. "I don't understand. How do you know about my mother? And how can you help?_

 _Sherlock opened his mouth, but Mycroft raised his hand, indicating it was his turn to speak. "Mr. Hooper, I understand that the NHS has rejected your application to remove your mother from Chapel Allerton and send her to New York for an experimental treatment."_

 _Thomas swallowed and nodded, unable to gaze away from the two, very dominating men across from him, looking quite out of place in his shabby yet comfortable home._

" _I also understand that without this experimental treatment, your mother's only option is to undergo chemotherapy, which is not expected to save her life."_

" _Yes," Thomas forced out, holding his tea between his hands, "But she doesn't even want that. She doesn't think it's worth going through it if she's going to die anyways."_

" _I see," Mycroft sipped his tea and looked at Sherlock, before back to Thomas. "We have someone we'd like you to meet."_

 _Thomas raised an eyebrow, but watched as Mycroft removed a laptop from a briefcase and opened it, showing a video call with a friendly gentleman in a white lab coat. The man waved._

" _Hello, Mr. Hooper," he announced, his voice confident and very American, "My name is Richard Garcia and I would be happy to operate on your mother. This particular treatment has had a ninety percent success rate, meaning most of my patients have seen significant increases in life span, or shrinking of their tumors. Of those ninety, sixty percent have seen their tumors disappear entirely and have a clean bill of health."_

 _Thomas blinked. "If it's so successful, why it still in the experimental phase?"_

 _The doctor sighed. "Well, it's an expensive treatment, and about five percent of my patients have died during the operation."_

 _The room grew silent, as Thomas considered the words. "She could die during this operation?"_

" _You could die during any operation, Mr. Hooper. And I don't wish to be harsh, but without this treatment, your mother will almost certainly die."_

 _Thomas shook his head angrily and looked over to Mycroft and Sherlock, who sat watching the interaction. He set his tea cup down aggressively, causing the liquid to fly over the table._

" _What is this? Why am I talking to this bloody American? Are you taunting me? It doesn't matter if he agrees to perform the operation! They won't let her leave!" He glanced over at Ellen, who was watching with tears in her eyes._

" _Besides," he practically whispered, "It's not as if we could afford it. And I'm not letting my baby sister go into debt for something that may not work."_

 _From the monitor, Dr. Garcia raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Hooper, I'll let Mr. Holmes discuss this with you further. I've said my piece. I'll see you tomorrow in New York."_

 _The connection went to black, prompting Thomas to look back at the brothers. Mycroft packed his laptop away, leaving Sherlock to speak._

" _The NHS has changed their minds. Your mother will be flown on an Air Ambulance this evening to New York City. Her surgery is tomorrow," Sherlock explained._

 _Thomas looked over at Ellen before back at Sherlock. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."_

 _Mycroft sighed and sipped his tea. "Mr. Hooper, my brother asked that I pull some strings to get your mother approved, which I have. I urge you not to worry any longer. Everything has been taken care of. From the treatment and rehabilitation costs, to your flights and accommodation. All you need to do is get on that flight this evening."_

 _Ellen started crying and dropped beside her husband, squeezing his hand. "This is incredible, Thomas! This means she has a chance!"_

 _Thomas looked between the two brothers, too shocked by their words to appear excited. "Why would you do this?" He asked, rather angrily, "I don't understand what's in this for you to help us!"_

 _Mycroft looked over at Sherlock, who appeared anxious, for once in his life._

" _I'm doing this because I care greatly for Molly. But that also brings up a condition."_

" _Excuse me?" Thomas asked, his eyes boring into Sherlock's._

" _You cannot tell Molly of my involvement. Tell her your wife filed an appeal, or someone wrote an article in the paper, that the community donated money… Whatever. She cannot know that I assisted."_

 _Thomas swallowed and stared at Sherlock, finally realizing what the man had done. He couldn't control the tears that fell down his face._

" _How can I ever thank you? How can I ever pay you back?" He asked, through glossy eyes._

 _Sherlock shook his head. "All I need you to do is ring Molly and tell her that her flight leaves at 9."_

 _With that, he rose to his feet, Mycroft doing the same. He replaced his gloves on his hands and looked over one final time at the couple, who were embracing and crying. He took a deep breath._

" _Good luck. I hope your mother recovers well."_

 _And with that, the Holmes brothers disappeared, leaving only a folder of travel information as proof of their visit._


	26. Adieu to Disappointment

" _There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects."_

Xxx

The flight was long. Or, rather it felt long. Because for the seven hours that she spent trapped in the vessel, she couldn't think straight. Her ears hurt from the change in pressure. Her legs hurt from the cramped seats. Her eyes hurt from the lack of sleep. Her back hurt from hunching over her mother's bed for days upon days, holding her hand.

But most of all, her heart hurt. The pain was unexplainable. It was as if someone had taken a knife to it a dozen times, but had no desire to kill her. To just inflict pain. But before the pain would become unbearable, someone would treat the wound, generously healing the gashes, filling her with promises of health.

 _How could he do this?_

Molly had asked herself that question about a hundred times since Ellen finally confessed what, or rather who, had brought them to New York. And as Ellen recounted the tale of Sherlock and Mycroft arriving in Leeds, tears in her eyes, Molly sat, paralyzed.

She knew that Sherlock was capable of a lot. She knew that Mycroft was capable of a lot. But together, the brothers could overturn government decisions, skirt past miles of red tape, dish out money like it grew on trees, and stand to the side as spectators, watching as the lives of others were so deeply affected.

How could she pay him back? What would she say to him? How could anything she could possibly do for Sherlock make them even?

Her stomach ached as she considered the financial cost. She would have to pay him back. She couldn't, in good faith, let the Holmes' brothers foot the bill for the journey.

And money aside, how could she ever thank him for his selflessness?

As she trudged back into her flat, late on a Sunday night, Toby greeted her. She picked the cat up and brought him to her chest, closing her eyes as a new onslaught of tears attacked her.

What was she to do now?

Her mother was back in Leeds, recovering from the operation, and waiting for her body to fight back. Her brother and Ellen would return to their regular lives, finally able to focus on work and their marriage instead of visits to the hospital.

But Molly?

Well, she was again single, her heart just a fraction of what it used to be. And now, she lived with the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes had made her mother's fight his own, and went behind her back to pick up the pieces of her broken family.

She wanted to be so angry. She wanted to hate the deceit, and the concealment, and his disappearance when she needed him most.

But she couldn't.

Because he had given her mother a chance at life when her own government refused to.

As tears cascaded down her face, she wondered if she could finally reopen the locked chamber of her heart. It had controlled the organ for some startling eight years, only ceasing control when she finally convinced herself that her unrequited love would remain just that. Ignored. Disregarded. Unappreciated.

Until Sherlock showed up, confessing love and appreciation and a desire to be with her. But how could she possibly believe those words, when for years she was treated like a subservient maid, functioning as a science journal, a barista, and a personal punching bag?

How could that be the same man that dropped by her flat with her favorite ice cream, or crawled around on the floor because it made his goddaughter laugh, or took her on a holiday to Scotland or…

Saved her mother's life, knowing he would gain nothing in the end.

 _He loves me._

 _Can I finally let myself love him?_

Xxx

Molly spent the week trying to determine how to approach Sherlock. It was possible he still didn't know that she knew, but he had yet to contact her since their trip to Scotland.

That was more than a month of complete silence from the man. Her heart ached.

But then again, when had it not?

She stood in front of the door to 221b Baker Street, willing herself to take a steadying breath. Her stomach was knots, her hands were sweaty, and she was honestly concerned she would pass out. But, sheer will won out, and she stood there, waiting after a calm knock, for the door to open.

A few moments passed before John Watson opened the door, smiling at Molly in surprise. "Molly! Hi. How are you?"

Molly swallowed and walked in, looking around the flat. She turned back to John. "I've been better. Is Sherlock here?"

John sighed and shook his head. "Nope. That's why I stopped by. I was hoping I'd see him. Truthfully, I haven't spoken to him in two weeks."

Molly collapsed into Sherlock's chair and shut her eyes. "Do you know where he is?"

"Well, he texted me. Said he was abroad dealing with a sex ring or something for Mycroft."

Molly sniffled and just nodded, her gaze locked on the carpet, which desperately needed a cleaning. John swallowed and watched his friend.

"You want to talk?" He asked cautiously.

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, wondering why she had even shown up. "I broke up with George a few weeks ago. He was going to propose and I… I just couldn't do it."

John just nodded, continuing to watch her, knowing she wasn't finished.

"And my mother is recovering from an operation that could save her life. One that she wasn't supposed to get. One that I recently discovered Sherlock was the mastermind behind."

John swallowed and looked down, unsure of what to say.

"Why did he do it?" She managed to choke out, her brown eyes leaking tears, "Why would he go through so much trouble for my mother? For my family? For me?"

John managed a small smile, for once sure of Sherlock's feelings on something. "Isn't it obvious, Molly? He loves you."

Molly shook her head and wiped her eyes. She took a shuddering breath and looked over at John. "I want to let him in, John. I really do. But I'm so scared he's going to hurt me again."

He nodded, his smile fading. "I know. I understand."

"What do I do?"

They stood in silence, staring at one another, both unsure of the next step. John sighed.

"My suggestion? Talk to him."

"I can't do that when he's not here," she whispered, perhaps with a bit of an attitude.

John couldn't help but laugh. "But he'll be back," he paused and sighed, "Eventually."

They remained in silence once again, John entertaining himself by looking over some of Sherlock's books, and Molly picking at her nails, the tears drying on her cheeks. Finally, John spoke up.

"So, will I see you at Greg's wedding? Can you believe how quickly they've knocked out this relationship? Dating for six months and the wedding two months after the engagement?" He laughed and replaced a book, looking back over at Molly, "I reckon after the first marriage failed, he just wanted this one to be quick and easy."

Molly forced a smile and nodded. "Yes, I'll be there. Alone," She sighed and stood up, "Now I only have two weeks to find a gift and a dress."

"I haven't told anyone yet but I…" He bit his lip and looked down, his cheeks turning a shade of red, "I have a girlfriend."

Molly couldn't help but whimper, happy to see John finally moving on. "That's wonderful, John. Will she be your plus one to the wedding?"

"I haven't asked her yet, but I sure hope so. Jane is just wonderful."

Molly smiled and nodded. She moved forward and hugged John, his scent comforting her like only Sherlock's could.

 _Because his smell reminds you of Sherlock. And Rosie. And all things that make you happy._

"Is it wrong for me to be so cautious with my heart?" She asked him, still in his embrace.

John just shook his head, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "With Sherlock, you can never be too cautious. But this time around, I promise you, everything will be right in the end."

With that, they exchanged goodbyes, before Molly disappeared from the flat. John cursed and glared at the skull on the mantle, his own heart aching after seeing Molly.

"Dammit, Sherlock. You've finally got her in your grasp and you just up and bloody disappear!"

The skull stared back.

John cursed and pulled at his hair.

"I'm becoming him. Talking to the bloody skull and all. What's next?"

He shook his head and grabbed his jacket, before also disappearing from the familiar flat.

Xxx

He was in Serbia. Or Slovakia. Or was it Slovenia?

All he knew was Mycroft requested his assistance, and Sherlock jumped at the opportunity to clear his head. To stop worrying about the outcome of the procedure. To stop worrying about how Molly was taking her mother's illness. To stop worrying about her pending engagement to George. To stop worrying about his sure to be permanent broken heart.

He cursed and took a whiff of his cigarette, dropping his head against the brick wall of the warehouse.

 _Since when do I worry?_

As he moved to re-enter the warehouse, where one bullet stood between freedom for eighteen women, his mobile vibrated. He took the device out and quickly read the message.

 _You have two weeks. Don't fuck this up. – JW_

Sherlock sighed and tucked his mobile away. He pulled out his gun and strolled inside, knowing other things would need to be accomplished first.

 _Sentiment. How awful._


	27. Humbled, Grieved, and Repented

" _That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you."_

xxx

Two weeks later, Molly found herself standing in front of a quaint church, wearing a new dress. It was plain but lovely. It fit her well, accentuating her best assets, and paired nicely with one of her older pairs of heels. But, best of all, she found it at Primark. Hanging on the clearance rack.

She finally felt like herself.

Which _also_ meant she was incredibly anxious and had a stomach full of knots. It was the first weekend she hadn't spent with her brother and mother in what seemed like months. Since she was a compulsive worrier, she was always afraid that something terrible would occur with her gone. Thankfully, however, her mother seemed to be improving steadily, and it was probably fine for Molly to miss this weekend.

 _It was only one._

She turned to her side, smiling at John, who looked devilishly handsome in his best suit. He held the hand of a smiling blonde woman, Jane, who had coordinated with his tie, and was dressed in a lovely mint-colored dress.

Molly sighed and held her clutch to her stomach, a million emotions playing through her head. The last wedding she had attended was John and Mary's. Seeing the church and the flowers and all the smiles had her heart aching, thinking of poor Mary being gone from the world. And how so much had changed since that moment.

Because she had attended that wedding, desperately trying to convince herself that she was over Sherlock, that she would marry Tom and finally live happily ever after. And now, Mary was dead, Tom was out of the picture, and her situation with Sherlock hadn't changed. Not really.

She hadn't heard from him, even after her visit to Baker Street. Six weeks since she heard his voice. Not even a text. She'd even accept a bloody email. But nothing. The git could do perhaps the most caring thing anyone had ever and would likely ever do for her, and he just up and disappears off the face of the planet!

She sighed and looked around, noticing a few recognizable faces—Greg's kids, his weary looking ex-wife and her new, much younger boyfriend, a few people from the Yard, including a very pregnant Sally and her boyfriend, and a very perturbed looking Anderson.

Molly couldn't pretend that she wasn't looking for one person in particular.

"I don't think he's coming." John's voice finally knocked Molly out of her thoughts. Rather than appearing concerned or disappointed like Molly, he looked angry. Furious even.

"It's okay, John," She replied, a light sigh escaping her lips, "I'm sure that—"

John scowled. "No, it's not bloody okay! He's barely spoken to me. He hasn't contacted to you. And he's missing Greg's wedding! Any case of his unless it was the bloody collapse of the state could wait." He shook his head angrily.

Molly frowned and brushed some hair behind her ear. She looked around once more, thinking that one more second would make Sherlock appear.

 _Dammit Sherlock. Why can't you make anything easy?_

And so, the three stood out there, even as the church began to fill up. John whispered angrily to Jane, leaving her to attempt to soothe his frustrations with some gentle back rubbing. Molly fiddled with the pendant of her necklace, wondering if he would really miss the wedding of one of his closest friends.

Eventually, they were the last three outside the door, still staring at the cars, attempting to remain optimistic. But, the time came when they were ushered inside, and the three sat in a middle booth, the corner empty.

Molly and John watched Greg get married.

Sherlock did not.

Xxx

Molly was seated next to John and Jane, as well as a handful of Greg's co-workers whom she had met in passing. The afterparty was a lovely affair, although clearly rather casual and thrown together quite hastily. Molly was starting to think that perhaps Charlotte was pregnant, but she quickly scolded herself for deducing like Sherlock.

 _Sherlock._

She scowled and took another sip of champagne, her stomach still in knots. After eating dinner, she had been perfectly content to remain in her seat, not to participate in a single dance. But, John was too much a gentleman, and insisted on two dances with her.

During the second song, her head resting on his shoulder, she was comforted in a way that only her father and brother had been able to provide. She supposed now she could add John to the list, as he continued to bring her around the dance floor.

"It's funny," John began, his voice soft, "I know it seems like I've always been able to deal with all of Sherlock's behavior. That I could always tolerate whenever he's reckless, or a dick, or bored out of his mind. But it wasn't always like that. I had to adjust too."

Molly sniffled and ignored the tears streaming down her cheeks, suddenly very relieved that the dark droplets would not be visible on John's dark suit. He sighed and continued to speak, unaware of the affect that his words were having on her.

"Because when I met him, he didn't know how to interact with a human being, let alone love one." John laughed softly and looked down at Molly, frowning when he discovered her state of distress.

"He loves you. Even if he has the most peculiar way of showing it." He whispered, wiping a tear off her cheek, "In fact, Mary…"

John swallowed, suddenly choking up at the thought of his late wife, "She thought that only a woman would have the ability to melt Sherlock's icy heart. She was hoping… No, she was certain that you two would end up together."

He paused, gaze distracted, his face in a frown. "But can I be frank? I never agreed. Because before he met you, Sherlock didn't have a heart. You gave him one."

"Why are you telling me this?" She whispered into his shoulder, her body barely moving to the music.

"Because," he replied, his voice slightly amused, "He's here."

Molly pulled away, turning around to stare at Sherlock, mouth agape. He had clearly just gotten back to London. His eyes were tired, his hair messy, his right cheek marred with a deep scratch, and his normally flawless attire was dampened with specs of dirt and wrinkles.

"Congrats Lestrade!" He announced, waving at the man, who from his seat at the front of the room, waved back with his mouth agape.

Sherlock turned around, his gaze locking on Molly, his eyes with one singular focus. He took two steps towards John and Molly, quick to tap his friend's shoulder.

"Thank you for being the placeholder, John. Please return to your girlfriend. I believe she is sick of hearing about Sally's pregnancy cravings."

John shook his head and let go of Molly, unable to hold back the smirk gracing his lips. "You're a dick."

"The biggest one around."

John chuckled and returned to his table, immediately offering his hand to his girlfriend. Sherlock, meanwhile, focused his attention on Molly, who had already begun to walk away. He jogged after her, grabbing onto her wrist.

"Molly…"

She refused to look at him.

"Molly. Please."

She took a deep breath and turned to him, conscious of more tears wetting her face at just the sheer sight of him. He swallowed, overwhelmed as well.

"How could—"

He took a step forward, interrupting her with, "May I have this dance?"

Taking her blank stare and open mouth as an affirmative, he pulled her into his arms, beginning to move their bodies to the music.

"You know," he began, his voice soft, his cheek pressed to the side of her head, allowing his lips to ghost across her ear, "There have been many times in my life where I felt as if I were at the bottom of a pit, continuously falling, never to climb out and see the light of day."

Molly sniffled and stared forward, desperately trying to not inhale his scent like a mad woman. "What changed?" She asked, her voice shaky.

"I so wish that I could avoid such clichés but truthfully… It was getting to know you. For you held my hand and believed in me, even during my deepest dives and most callous endeavors."

Molly looked up at him, her eyes sad. "Why did you do it, Sherlock? Why?"

He took a deep breath. He knew this question would come eventually, but truthfully, he still was unsure how to answer it. He placed a soft kiss to her head.

"I will not deny that I did it to make you happy, Molly. For as much as I respect your mother, and your brother, and your sister-in-law, and hope for the healthiest of outlooks for your mother I…"

He tilted her chin, letting his blue eyes drown hers, "I thought only of you."

She didn't even try to prevent the tears from falling. "Six weeks," was all she managed out.

He frowned. "I know. I'm sorry."

She pushed at his chest gently, although he did not move. "You always do this! I finally start to think that maybe…" She hiccupped, her voice dropping an octave, "That maybe we could finally be something. That I could finally allow myself to love you."

He held onto her, afraid that letting go would be permanent.

"But then you do things, like disappear for six bloody weeks! And then I wonder, has he really changed? How is this Sherlock any different from the one who told me that my boobs were too small? My lips too thin? That I was unfunny? That I should stop dating?"

Tears fell freely, her body shaking. Sherlock watched on, his face stuck in a frown.

"It's so hard for me to believe that you could love me after all of that. And you've said it so many times. And you've shown me in so many ways yet…"

"Yet what, Molly?" He voiced, his face emotionless.

"I can't help but wonder if you truly mean it. Even if I desperately want you to."

At her words, his arms loosened, allowing her to take a step back. She looked into his sad eyes, identical to her own.

"I broke up with George. I realized he wasn't the right man for me."

"Then who is?" Sherlock forced out, his own hands shaking.

Before her answer could be heard, Sherlock found himself whisked away by a drunk Anderson, whining about losing Sally to another man, and Greg, who wanted to take a drink with him. As he struggled to get away from the men, Molly gave him a sad smile, before disappearing through the doors.

 _This ends now. The game is over._


	28. A Pair of Fine Eyes

" _I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty women can bestow."_

Xxx

Molly had returned to her flat after the wedding, sadder and more emotionally drained than she thought possible. In addition to a pounding headache and an aching heart, she also had the lovely coating of blisters covering her feet from her shoes. Of course, blisters were nothing compared to the pain of finally seeing Sherlock after six bloody weeks.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to snog him and beat him at the same time. And that was always what Sherlock had been capable of—making her so deliriously happy and angry that her body was at risk of exploding from the mixed emotions.

And now, as she sat wrapped in a fuzzy dressing gown, Toby on her lap, she wondered what her next step would be. Would she finally, truly give up on him? Would she leave London?

 _Could I really leave here and still be happy?_

The possibilities for the future swarmed her head, making it hard for her to breathe. She held Toby closer to her chest, thankful for a warm body with her, when a loud knocking came from her door. With shaky legs, she rose to her feet and opened the door, coming face to chest with Sherlock.

He had clearly gone home and cleaned up, evident by the bandaged cut on his cheek, his clean curls, and a fresh outfit underneath his jacket. He met her gaze and cleared his throat. It was then that Molly noticed the instrument tucked underneath his arm.

"What are you doing here?" She whispered, holding her arms to her chest, trying to forget the previous time Sherlock had stood in her doorway.

Sherlock simply ignored her and strolled inside, leaving Molly to sigh and shut the door. She leaned against the wall, watching as Sherlock dropped his jacket over one of her chairs, and proceeded to give Toby a generous rubdown.

"It's late, Sherlock. You should go home. You clearly just got back to London. I'm sure you're tired. Go to sleep."

At this, he finally acknowledged her presence with a scoff. "Sleep? You expect me to sleep? You have no idea what's running through my head."

"Then what is?" She asked, strolling back into her sitting room.

"The very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty women can bestow," He replied, his aqua gaze penetrating her own.

At his words, her mouth dropped ever so slightly, as her brain processed his declaration. It was one she was familiar with. One she had read, many times. One that lay hidden in a novel, sitting on her bedside table.

 _Mr. Darcy._

Before she could even sputter out a response, he picked his violin up and held it against his body, ready to play. He looked at her, his eyes smoldering, as the beautiful melody filled the room.

Molly could do nothing more but stand there, one hand over her mouth, the other hugging her stomach, as she watched Sherlock play. His eyes never left her own.

Blue on brown.

His concentration and devotion licked across every inch of his body, from the way his hands held the bow, to the tensing of his muscles, to the small droplets of sweat that cascaded down his temples.

Brown on blue.

The song ghosted behind her, climbing up the back of her body and enveloping her in a warm embrace, squeezing the life out of her heart. She steadied herself against the wall, watching with sheer fascination as the melody slowly disappeared, and his violin was once again discarded on her table.

They stared at each other for a few moments. Sherlock was clearly deducing her response to the song. Meanwhile, Molly was trying to get her brain to function again. Finally, he opened his mouth, and his warm voice filled the room the same way his song had, only moments earlier.

"My working title had been _Molly's Waltz_ , but that appeared too… Cliché. And again, it wasn't exactly a waltz," He began, his eyes still watching Molly.

"So, I considered what title would be worthy for a woman I love. I thought long and hard. Perhaps I approached the task as I would solve a case."

"You wrote that for me?" She forced out, her voice small and confused.

"Of course, I did," He responded, taking a few steps forward, "You inspire me. One could call you my muse."

"You really don't mean that, Sherlock."

He scoffed. "Yes. I do. You know me, Molly. Let's be frank here. What do I gain from being in love? I become attached to another individual. I must inform them of my every movement. Concern myself with their wellbeing every time I disappear into the darkness. Start filling the fridge with butter and bread, not brains."

Molly sniffled and crossed her arms, still watching the perturbed man across from her. "I don't know, Sherlock. Why don't you tell me then? Because it sounds like you don't want to be in love."

He stuck his nose up, seemingly ready for the challenge.

"I once thought that love was a dangerous disadvantage," he began, his voice slightly unsure even though his posture said otherwise, "But after falling in love with you, I realize it's the greatest advantage of all."

He took an unsteady breath. "I get someone to care about, to hold close, to experience and feel with. I get to see the smile on your face when I do something right. I get to feel your heartbeat against mine. I get to have a purpose here. A reason to stick around."

Molly swallowed and looked down, trying to remind herself to breath. "What did you name it?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "The same thing I am always thinking about. A Pair of Fine Eyes."

She shook her head, now ignoring the tears streaming down her face. "Why are—"

"You said I was like Mr. Darcy when you rejected me. You told me I was unable to confess my feelings without insulting you. Then, again, as we watched Rosie, you told me that Mr. Darcy was, and I quote, 'the world's biggest prick and the epitome of a gentleman at the same bloody time'."

"I don't understand what—"

Sherlock once again interrupted. "For the first time since secondary school, I went out and purchased the novel. Reread it. Tried to determine why you made two allusions to the same literary character in my presence."

"And?" She whispered, her voice unsure.

"Mr. Darcy's pride was his biggest shortcoming, and the one thing that stood in the way of his happiness and those that he loved."

He took a step forward and brushed a tear away from her cheek. He sighed.

"So, perhaps you are right. Perhaps I do share similarities to the character."

He shifted and grabbed her hand, his eyes boring into hers.

"My pride killed Mary. It has nearly killed everyone else I care about. But for some reason, I never stopped to consider its effect on my life until it left your lips. I never considered that my arrogance and brutal honesty had pushed away everyone I…." He paused, his eyes shifting down before back to her curious, brown gaze, "Everyone I love."

Molly sniffled and placed her free hand on his cheek, gently caressing the bandaged skin.

"That's not the only reason I thought you to be like Mr. Darcy."

He didn't respond, instead watching her with sad eyes.

"His shortcomings aside, he was also a fiercely loyal man that would do anything for the people he cared about. His best friend, his sister, the woman he loved… He was protective and still honorable, even if he lacked the social graces of the average gentleman."

She sniffled and squeezed his hand, her eyes now looking over every scratch and nick on his face, "But most of all, Darcy has his redemption in the end. He becomes the man he always could be."

She brought his hand to her mouth and placed a gentle kiss on the palm, her eyes now locked on his blue orbs, "I always hoped you would have your redemption like Darcy. Because you shared the same attributes, both his good and bad."

Sherlock swallowed and moved to grab her other hand, intertwining their fingers. He placed kisses on each of the digits.

"If I die tonight," he began, moving closer to her form, "I want you to know that I wouldn't be satisfied."

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against her own, his eyes locked on her wet gaze, his hands now without her own and creeping up her body to caress her cheeks.

"Not without you by my side. Not without your love."

She began to cry more, fat tears dripping down her face. Sherlock began to kiss each of the droplets away, his thumbs brushing away the ones his lips weren't fast enough to catch.

"And if we believe Mycroft… If we believe that sentiment is the chemical defect found in the losing side…" His lips kissed down her cheek until they ghosted over her lips. She shut her eyes, her face leaning into his.

His voice vibrated her lips as he continued, "Then by God Molly, I'd happily lose the game every time if it meant spending my life with you."

She let out another cry before throwing her arms around his neck, drawing his face into her own. She pressed her lips to his in a passionate kiss, her hands roaming from his chest to his cheeks to his hair, desperate to hold onto him. Desperate to prove to her senses that this wasn't a dream that she had years ago, laying in an empty bed.

Sherlock kissed her back with as much passion as he could muster, his hands settling on her hips, bringing her petite body closer to his own. Their lips and tongues tangled for a few moments, before they finally pulled away, their foreheads pressed together, their eyes unable to gaze away.

"I love you," he whispered, his thumb running over her bottom lip, his other hand holding her as close to his body as possible.

And for the first time in years, Molly finally felt the desire, and the strength, and the belief, to utter those words back. Back to a man who she had always, and would always, love.

"I love you too."

He pulled her into another passionate embrace, their lips and hands desperate on one another's bodies. Sherlock pulled her towards the bedroom, her own hands working on the buttons of his top.

He picked her up and tossed her onto the bed, his hands moving to discard her dressing gown and unsightly sleep shirt. He soon found himself without his trousers or his pants. He hovered over her, placing desperate kisses along her neck and chest and stomach, until nearing back to her lips.

"You are beautiful. Every inch of you," He whispered, his voice filled with reverence.

Molly sniffled and kissed him again, her hands pulling desperately at his curls. She let him pull away, allowing their eyes to meet once more.

"Sherlock, make love to me."

He needed no further prompting. With a soft kiss and his arms wrapped around her body, he pushed in.

And finally, they were united.

 _Sentiment. How wonderful._


	29. Incandescently Happy

" _A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment."_

Xxx

They laid in bed, Molly draped across his body, Sherlock's hands playing with the loose strands of her hair. He placed a soft kiss to her head, and couldn't help but smile.

"That was…"

Molly leaned up, trying to meet his eyes. "Satisfactory? Pleasant?"

"Extraordinary." He responded, a glint in his eyes.

She giggled and laid back on his chest, her fingers drawing shapes on the exposed skin. She began to place soft kisses all over, careful to press especially loving ones to any of his scars and new scratches. He sighed happily and pulled her closer, his body buzzing with release and satisfaction.

Although he had about a million things he wanted to say and ask, instead, all he managed out was a soft, "I love you."

Molly grinned and kissed him softly. "I love you, too."

And with that, they both fell asleep, Toby entangled with their feet, making his own satisfied noises.

Xxx

A week had passed since their coupling, and they had yet to inform anyone about their relationship developments. They hadn't exactly settled on labels, given as they were the least traditional people when it came to relationships. So, they weren't too keen to start answering questions such as, "Are you sure Sherlock Holmes has a girlfriend?"

At any rate, since Molly's relationship with George had ended not even two months ago, she felt uncomfortable making the announcements immediately. Throwing in her mother's condition, she just felt that happy news would be inappropriate.

So, they were for all intents and purposes… sneaking around. And on that overcast Sunday night, Molly just arriving back in the city from a weekend with her family, she stopped off at Baker Street. Sherlock had been reading and snuggling with Toby (he was now keen to cat-sit whenever she went up north) when Molly came into his flat, her face full of longing.

At her face, he sat up, suddenly concerned. "Molly? What's wrong? Is it your mother?"

She laughed and tossed her bag, quick to run into his arms. Before he could shoot out another question, she was in his lap, pressing hot kisses to his face.

"No. She's wonderful. Her tumors have shrunk almost sixty percent," She stopped to suck on a patch of skin below his ear, causing him to moan, "I just desperately missed you."

He smirked and kissed her, settling his hands on pulling her out of jacket, and the ridiculous sweater dress she was wearing. She pulled away from his lips to begin to unbutton his shirt, her eyes locked on his, and her smile amused.

"What?" He asked, his hands running along her deliciously soft hips, playing with the material of her knickers.

"I just never got to properly thank you for helping my mother," Her voice was pure business, although her hands hinted otherwise. She drew his lips in for another kiss, before her hand snuck into his trousers, and began a generous palming of his excited cock.

He grunted into her mouth and pulled away. "Molly, you don't have to thank—"

He stopped the minute he was freed from his trousers, and her hand was fully wrapped around the engorged length. She smirked and began to move her hands, her eyes locked on his blue orbs.

"Oh? Should I stop then?" She asked teasingly, nibbling on her bottom lip.

He groaned and shook his head, quickly pressing another hungry kiss to her lips.

Her hands began to move faster, their kiss growing more intense and rather sloppy as he got closer to his breaking point. He attempted to rid her of her bra as her hand continued to move, but the garment was proving to be too much for the genius. He abandoned his pursuit, and instead pushed the cups down to free her chest.

He kissed down her chest and captured a soft, pink nipple in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the bud, his cock bouncing happily at the actions of his mouth.

"Oh Sherlock—" She gasped out, her head thrown back, her hands not slowing down.

"Oh… SHERLOCK!" a male voice yelped out in surprise, followed by the giggle of a delighted baby.

Sherlock groaned and raised his head, his eyes landing on an equally surprised and disgusted John Watson, who covered the eyes of a very happy Rosie, who was strapped to his chest.

Molly screamed and grabbed the blanket from the sofa, quickly wrapping herself up and retreating out of the room. Sherlock growled at John and painfully shoved himself back in his trousers, immediately redirecting a glare at his mate.

"Why didn't you bloody leave?" He screamed at John, equally as angry that his friend had seen Molly's bare chest.

John sputtered for a few moments, before his brain started to work again. "You. Molly. How? When?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "A week ago. The day of Lestrade's wedding."

"And you didn't tell me?!" John looked almost as upset as he looked surprised.

Sherlock groaned. "We're still coming to terms with what to call this."

"It looked like messing around on the sofa to me."

Sherlock grinned at that, before his face contorted into an angry scowl. "Yes. It was. Until you bloody walked in and didn't leave!"

John rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the memory. "I fucking froze! I didn't even know your cock knew how to bloody work!"

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, it works very well. Thanks for asking."

That caused John to gag. He put his hands on his hips and continued to stare at Sherlock.

Sherlock made a face. "What?"

"Well? You aren't going to share how you went from lovestruck and the friend zone to snogging Molly in your sitting room?"

"We were doing more than snogging."

"SHERLOCK!"

"Alright. If you insist. I visited her after the wedding. I played her the song I wrote. Then I told her how I felt again. She cried. And then we made love."

John just blinked. "So… She loves you too?"

He couldn't help but grin. "Indeed, she does."

"Took you long enough!" John hit him upside the head and glared. "You kept rambling on about some bloody plan and nothing was fucking happening!"

Sherlock made a face. "On the contrary, John. My plan worked perfectly."

He blinked. "Excuse me? How?"

"I had forty steps for how I would win her love."

John fell into his chair, giving Rosie a toy to occupy her. He snorted. "Great. I've got to hear this."

Sherlock scowled. "If you insist. I won't go through each step but it was quite simple. Step 10: Reaffirm friendship. Step 16: Make sure George knows I am threat. Step 28: Take her on romantic holiday that she doesn't know is a romantic holiday. Step 33: She dumps George. Step 40: We make love."

He yawned and ran a hand through his curls. "Quite simple, really."

John sat up and glared. "Oh, no! You do _NOT_ get to claim that you predicted her mother's cancer diagnosis!"

Sherlock waved his hand. "Of course. What a terrible thing, really. Yes. I admit. That was not a part of my plan. However, Step 37 was to provide some sort of grand gesture to prove my love. Admittedly, my idea was more along the lines of buying her another cat or something like that. But given what happened with her mum, it just… Worked."

John mumbled to himself and rubbed at his eyes, unbelieving of Sherlock's words.

"So, let me get this straight. You're going to claim that from the point she rejected you, and you decided to win her love, the plan you created encompassed everything that happened?"

"Yes."

John growled. "Bullshit! What about Greg's—"

"His wedding? Child's play. I saw six business cards of various jewelers around London and his inquiring into Sally's ring on multiple trips to his office. I also could tell that his girlfriend was pregnant and that the wedding would be rushed. Ergo, I was able to pinpoint a three-week range that the wedding would fall into."

Sherlock yawned and grabbed a discarded cup of tea and took a sip. He hummed, full of positive energy.

"Admittedly, I hadn't expected to miss the entire ceremony. And I did plan on winning Molly's affections during the after party. When that didn't happen, my trip to her flat was Plan B for Step 39."

John just groaned again and kept his eyes focused on the ceiling. "I bloody hate you. You know that?"

Sherlock just grinned. "No, you don't. You're my best friend."

John mumbled to himself. "Debatable."

"No. It isn't. And for that reason, I owe you an apology. I'm sorry I was so difficult to deal with these past few months. I was experiencing two feelings I never had before—love and heart break. So, I regret that on occasion, I used you as a punching bag."

John sighed and forced a small smile. "It's alright, Sherlock. You just better not hurt Molly. Because if you do, I will gut you."

Sherlock smirked. "Noted."

He rose to his feet and motioned towards the door. "Now, please see yourself out. Molly and I have quite a lot to catch up on."

With that, John gagged and walked out, leaving Rosie to spit out gurgled words and wave excitedly at Sherlock.

He grinned and waved at the child, before walking down the hallway towards his bedroom, happy to rejoin Molly.

 _A child. That's an interesting thought._

Xxx

A few weeks later, Molly was carrying the last of her boxes into 221b, Toby scampering through her legs every time the door opened. It had been a busy weekend clearing her flat, and she could now officially call Baker Street her home.

While Sherlock had been a delightful boyfriend and helped move some boxes, he did leave the remainder for John, who proceeded to complain the entire time, with such ringers as "She's not my girlfriend" and "I don't even live here".

Sherlock, in the meantime, entertained himself with the cat and Rosie, flipping through a delightful children's book about how everyone used the toilet. He was listening in on John and Molly discussing where a table went in the bedroom when his mobile went off.

He answered it with a droll, "Hello?"

A haughty voice filled is ears. "Ahh, Sherlock, how is my dearest baby brother?"

"Delightful," Sherlock responded, his eyes still glued to the children's book.

"Mhm. It has come to my attention that Dr. Hooper's flat is now available to let."

Sherlock yawned. "Yes. That is the case."

"It has also come to my attention that Dr. Watson has been helping Dr. Hooper move boxes into your flat all day."

"That is also accurate."

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, must you make things so difficult?"

"I'm sorry, brother. If you had a question, perhaps you would just ask it?"

"Indeed. Are you and Miss Hooper now in a relationship?" He asked.

Sherlock snorted. "It's Dr. Hooper, to you."

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. "Sherlock."

"Yes. Molly and I are in a relationship."

Mycroft couldn't help but smile from the other end of the line. "I would lecture you for not informing me, but I suppose I have no right."

"No, you don't."

Mycroft sighed again. "I'm proud of you Sherlock."

"Splendid. I always need your approval."

He groaned. "Sherlock. What I'm trying to say is… I'm happy for you."

Sherlock swallowed, suddenly feeling his chest get heavy. He looked over at Rosie, who was busy chewing on a toy. He couldn't help but smile.

"Thank you, Mycroft. For everything."

A silence greeted Sherlock on the other end of the line, telling him that the conversation was over. He ended the call, just as John and Molly reentered the sitting room.

"Well, I'll be off. I'm taking Jane to this new restaurant. It's called Netherfield Park. Down in SoHo. Are you sure you're fine watching Rosie?"

Molly grinned and nodded. "Of course, she's in good hands. Have fun, John!"

Sherlock watched with an unreadable face as Molly hugged John and bid him a farewell. When she turned and spotted Sherlock, she raised an eyebrow. "What? Don't tell me you're jealous that I hugged John."

He blinked. "Of course not. But did you hear what he said?"

"Yes. He has a date with Jane."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, before adding, "At a restaurant called Netherfield Park."

Molly made a face. "I don't understand—"

As if the wheels started turning, she gazed at Sherlock with her mouth agape. He just laughed.

"Come along, my dearest Molly. We have activities to catch up on."

"Sherlock! Not with Rosie around!"

She giggled and allowed Sherlock to lift her up, Rosie within her arms. The two embarked on a passionate kiss as he strolled to the bedroom, Toby scampering not far behind. They fell into a pile on the bed, Rosie climbing on his chest, letting out words of gibberish. Molly grabbed his hand, her smile as big as it had ever been.

 _How is it possible to be this happy?_


	30. Mrs Darcy

" _Do not be in a hurry. The right man will come at last."_

Xxx

 _ **Two Years Later**_

221b had changed. Sure, the flat itself was cleaner, and had far more light filtering in, but the atmosphere had changed. Perhaps it was the addition of colored pillows for the chairs, or delightful oven mitts with kittens adorning the front, or the various photos joining Billy the Skull on the mantle. Either way, Baker Street had undeniably changed.

Sherlock strolled into the sitting room, stopping in front of the window to say hello to two of their three pets. He had finally come to terms with his affection for animals, and quickly suggested a pet rabbit. And thus, Rabbit entered the family. Although John was quick to criticize the name, he just didn't understand that the animal was named after the Winnie the Pooh character, not the animal itself.

At least he understood why the goldfish was called Nemo, although he was quick to clarify that Nemo was not in fact a goldfish. Thankfully, Jane had whacked his head and told him that the name was cute. Sherlock quite liked Jane after that.

And of course, joining Nemo and Rabbit was Toby, who had grown to quite like his new territory. He was quick to make John's old chair his favorite napping spot, and now, the family always knew where to find the grumpy cat.

Sherlock strolled into the kitchen, his eyes landing on the brightly colored cake, as well as the assortment of other foods. He picked up a paper cup from the stack, his eyes landing on a pink, anthropomorphic pig. Before he could even inquire about the choice (recognizing the same horrid creature from years ago with John), the doorbell rang.

"Sherlock! Would you get that please? I'm a bit delayed!" Molly yelled, deep within one of the rooms.

Sherlock mumbled to himself but quickly listened to his wife, opening the door for what could only be described as their entire list of party guests. He scowled, knowing that of course all their bleeding morons would arrive at the same time.

He stepped aside, allowing the group to funnel in, filling his once silent flat (sans Toby's content meows) with loud yapping.

There was Mrs. Hudson, who looked cheerful in a large hat and an armful of gifts. Followed closely behind was John, holding the hand of a toddling Rosie, and Jane, who was grinning at her now fiancé. Lestrade was quick to follow, holding the hand of his wife Charlotte, who held the hand of a squirming child.

Then followed Anderson (why in god's name was he there?) holding the hand of who appeared to be a very new and confused new girlfriend. Sally entered behind, her husband and baby after. When Molly's brother and sister-in-law entered, also holding their own baby, Sherlock wondered how many bloody children were going to invade his flat. Molly's mother, who's health had taken a fortunate turn for the better, entered behind her son. Lastly, Molly's dear friend Meena and her husband tailed behind.

Sherlock almost let himself take a breath of relief, before Mycroft and Anthea waltzed in, his parents behind. Then, he groaned.

And again, now his delightful little flat was so damn noisy!

"Sherlock? Where's Molly? As if we'd show up for you." John said, a smirk growing on his lips, "Why do you keep the best parts locked away?"

Before he could even open his mouth to spit something at John, Molly entered, holding the hands of two toddling toddlers, a boy with a head full of wild curls, and a girl with her hair drawn into two composed pigtails. Sherlock smirked.

 _Only my children could walk so well at 12 months._

"So sorry! We had a bit of an incident. Will decided to make a mess while I was changing Mary." She laughed and lifted Will, and Sherlock followed suit with Mary.

"Like father like son," Lestrade quipped, approaching with his wife. "Happy birthday to the twins! I think this is Charlotte's first time meeting the kids, yeah?"

His wife nodded, reaching out to say hello to both children, their eyes wide and inquisitive like their father's. Molly smiled and kissed her son's temple.

"Well," she began, "That's Mary." She pointed to the little girl in Sherlock's arms, who had decided to bury her face in her father's chest, alarmed by the amount of people in her home.

"And this," She continued, her hands playing with the luscious curls on his head, "Is Fitzwilliam. But we call him Will."

From across the room, Anderson's laughter filled the space. "Hold on just a moment! No one said his name was Fitzwilliam! Greg said it was William!"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm sorry, Anderson. Is there something amiss with my son's given name?"

He made a face. "Just a bit antiquated, don't you think?"

Sherlock glared. "Stop inflicting your opinions on the world, Anderson."

Anderson gawked and continued to speak anyway, "I just think that it's a funny name for a kid."

Sherlock practically hissed. "Have you no respect? We named our children after two important people in our lives. A woman who gave her life for mine and a man who assisted in bringing us together."

Molly grinned and kissed him softly, eliciting a squeal from her own mother and Mrs. Hudson, who had become fast friends over the span of her relationship with Sherlock. She looked at Anderson.

"Yes, it's a bit of a silly choice, but that's why we call him Will. But, he'll be welcome to go by his full name or even Fitz when he's older. That will be his decision to make."

Anderson grumbled to himself and joined his date, who had taken to hiding in the kitchen. Sherlock scowled and watched him retreat, before turning to Molly. "Who even invited him?"

Greg chuckled. "That was me. I apologize."

"As you should. We made you Will's god father and this is how you thank us?"

Greg grinned. "I gotta piss off his father somehow, don't I?"

Sherlock made another face and looked at Molly. "This is precisely why we should have made John the god father of both twins. Or your brother."

She touched his chest and sighed. "We've been over this. It would have been disrespectful to expect John to be the godfather of both, or to give my brother the title and not your own."

He rolled his eyes. "Please. As if Mycroft would deserve the honor."

From his arms, Mary began to struggle, indicating her desire to be free. Sherlock kissed her head and set her down, watching with pride as she toddled her way over to the growing playpen of babies and toddlers in his living room.

 _It's like a bloody day care in here._

He looked over to Will, who was being passed around between his three grandparents, clearly detesting the attention and sloppy kisses he was receiving all over his chubby cheeks. It made Sherlock beam with pride.

 _Lestrade is right. Like father like son._

He dropped down to his chair, watching with fascination as his wife circled around, talking to their guests. As he sipped a cup of sugary juice, his eyes again glancing from that stupid pig to his daughter playing on the ground, he couldn't help but smile. He thought back to Rosie's first birthday party, perhaps the first moment he was forced to consider his attraction to Molly head on.

And now he was here, married to her with two children.

 _Well. Not for long._

At the thought, he made eye contact with Molly, who preceded to blush and nod. She began to open her mouth, as if to speak, until John and Jane reentered the room, holding hands with a smile.

"Can I make an announcement?" John asked, unaware that Molly had been attempting to do the same. The room quieted as everyone turned to him. He took a protective hold on Jane, giving her a soft smile.

"We just wanted to let everyone know that Jane is expecting."

Claps and hollers filled the room. John grinned and gave Jane a soft kiss. From his seat, Sherlock scoffed. John groaned.

"What? Was I supposed to ask your permission, Sherlock?"

He rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I am just delighted to announce that I am still winning."

John raised an eyebrow. "Winning?"

"Yes. Molly and I will still have more offspring than you." He turned to look at their guests, "Molly is pregnant again."

More delightful squeals filled the air, sans Sally's spawn who had decided that now was the optimum moment to shit herself and let out a loud sob.

John groaned and rubbed his temples. "Jesus, Sherlock! Having children is not a competition!"

His lips quirked. "It is for me. And, Molly and I win."

He gave his wife a charming smile. She rolled her eyes, but still gave him a smile in return. But, from across the room, a slow clap grew. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked around, until he settled on Mycroft's haughty look of satisfaction.

"Congrats, brother mine. However, it might serve you to know that Anthea is also expecting."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, especially at the sound of his mother shrieking about two new grand babies.

"However," Mycroft continued, his eyes gleaming mischievously, "You may not be delighted to know that we're having more than one baby."

Sherlock scowled. "How many?"

Mycroft smirked. "Triplets."

At that, Sherlock jumped to his feet and sneered, crushing the empty cup in his hands. He glared at his older brother before shifting his gaze back over to Molly, who was rolling her eyes at her husband.

"MOLLY! You need to have twins. I will not be defeated by my idiot brother!"

Molly sighed and went over to Sherlock. "You're a smart man, Sherlock. Surely you know that I can't force my body to have multiple children."

He scowled and lowered his voice. "We'll just do what we did last time."

"Yes, well, last time the babies were conceived in a storage closet at the Yard. This one," She brought his hand to her stomach, "Was conceived in the hot tub at John's place. Not that it even matters."

John's face fell. "You shagged in my hot tub? Do you have any boundaries?"

Sherlock scowled and glared at his friend. "Oh, piss off Watson. They're filled with chemicals as it is."

Mycroft just smirked and pulled Anthea into his arms. "It seems we'll be even, brother dearest."

Sherlock smirked and kissed Molly softly, keeping his eyes on his brother.

"For now."

 _ **The End**_

 **NOTE: Thanks so much for reading! I've loved writing this story, so I truly hope you've loved reading it! Thank you for the wonderful feedback, and let me know what you think**

 **P.S. There will be a short, accompanying sequel to come sometime in the future. But many new stories from me on the way!**


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